D(Evolution)
by minotaurbear
Summary: A twist on Mad Love! What if The Joker and Harley had met when they were 17 – before she was his psychiatrist and he was a criminal mastermind? Watch a volatile, sexually charged "friendship" forage through two equally dark pasts, and how their past together affects their affiliation in the present – with Harley as Joker's psychiatrist. Split evenly btwn past and present. Post-TDK
1. Knives Out

Hey guys, this is my first fic so please bear with me. I read somewhere that The Joker's look in TDK was heavily inspired by Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious… and we all know who Sid's other half is (cough… Nancy). Boom, inspiration.

Other influences include The Killing Joke, Joker (graphic novel), Arkham Asylum/City video games and B:TAS. This Joker looks like Heath Ledger/Azzarello Joker and acts 85% HL and 15% Mark Hamill. Gotham City is primarily Nolanverse but creeps into Arkham City territory.

**Normal font indicates present day and italics indicate the past** (10 years ago - this will remain constant)

DC owns everything.

* * *

I want you to know  
He's not coming back  
Look into my eyes  
I'm not coming back  
-_Knives Out_, Radiohead

Harley nestled into her office chair and began furiously fidgeting. She'd been gripped by nausea all morning and had barely kept down a cup of black coffee after spewing up her first three. Her hands began to shake and she had to drop the file that she had studied all throughout the night. She'd managed about two hours of sleep and Aaron Cash had even pointed out her visible exhaustion at the Arkham Island checkpoint.

"Aww, Doc, you work too hard," he'd chided and she'd responded with a strained chuckle.

The entire island was abuzz with frenzied activity. It had completely transformed within a week from a melancholy, sluggish outpost for Gotham's criminally insane into a bustling, alert fortress. Security guards, orderlies and doctors were all rustling about and the hushed whispers of gossip fluttered through the air. The excitement even permeated the bleak walls of the asylum and infected some of the more coherent inmates. They gossiped amongst themselves in the recreation rooms and cafeteria, murmuring about the shift in the underbelly politics of Crime Alley, the heightened security at Arkham and, of course, about him.

She'd hurried past the swirling rumors, past the _I-heard-he_'s and the _nah-but-Joe-told-me_'s and crashed straight into Dr. Jonathan Crane. She had been so startled that she nearly vomited on him, possibly because she'd had a sizeable crush on him since he was her Psychopharmacology T.A. her junior year of college, or maybe it was the fact that The Joker's photograph was now staring up at her.

A week ago, Jeremiah Arkham had assigned her to be The Joker's psychiatrist. She had begged, cried, implored, with every fiber of her being, to be taken off the case. For one, she was entirely inexperienced. She'd recently entered the sixth month of her internship at Arkham Asylum and had finished medical school less than a year ago. Secondly, something stirred in her every time she saw him on a television screen, and she wasn't exactly sure what that was. She was sure, however, that she did not want to be alone in a room with him. Her superior in turn pleaded with her; apparently The Joker had personally demanded her as his psychiatrist. He would refuse to speak, to open his mouth at all, unless she provided his treatment. Jeremiah Arkham, in a decision hidden from the prying eye of the media, had defied protocol and assigned an _intern_ to the criminal mastermind known as The Joker. The corrupt warden merely assumed that his beautiful, young intern could get the monster initially talking, and then he would subsequently send in the best experts the entire country had to offer. The Joker would be cured, under his administration, and he would enjoy an excellent legacy, unlimited government funding and, most likely, a bid for Governor.

Harley was merely a political pawn and she knew it.

The most she'd wrenched out of him was to allow her to conduct unrecorded sessions. She had absolutely refused to utilize a tape recorder and even threatened to quit her job over the issue. Not willing to let go of his potential glory, he had conceded.

A searing pain flashed through her skull; she hadn't slept for an entire week. Arkham Asylum granted their newest patient the standard seven days for transition before beginning any psychiatric evaluation. As she looked down at the file, at his scarred, painted face, a slew of memories slammed through her head. She remembered the paralysis that he had inflicted upon the city and the utter fear that gripped Gothamites every time they turned on a television. Yet she remembered more than that. Much, much more than that. She would have wondered why The Joker had demanded her as his psychiatrist, but she already knew the reason.

Suddenly, the door flew open and two guards dragged him in. They shoved him down onto her brown bolted chaise before glancing up at her.

"Hi, Doctor Quinzel," Frank Boles grinned at her. She returned a weak smile.

"Hi Frank. Hi Brendan," she nodded. They sheepishly tipped their hats at her and shuffled out the door, leaving the two alone. She silently wished unspeakable fates upon Jeremiah Arkham, as he had effectively chucked her into the gladiator pit, unarmed, and sealed the damn gate.

She could feel the lion's heated stare boring into her and finally decided to meet his gaze.

"Well helllllllloooooo_,_" he crooned, grinned wickedly. Her stomach clenched and she forced herself to swallow the dry lump in her throat.

He was a bit taller, she noted, perhaps by an inch or two. His face had aged considerably as well. He looked… haggard. Dark, purple circles clung underneath his black eyes and he'd developed new creases along his forehead. He squinted, deepening the laugh lines crinkled around his weary eyes. His skin was drained and dull, and it was clear that he'd been neglecting personal hygiene for some time now. He ran a tongue over his yellowed teeth, and as his shoulder twitched, a dark lock of green grease-painted hair fell onto his forehead. His tics had worsened considerably. His right knee jiggled at a steady agitated pace, bouncing his cuffed hands. He looked like a nightmare. Further, he looked like a nightmare undergoing the seventh day of withdrawal symptoms.

Years of cocaine, insomnia and madness would do that to a man.

"You don't look happy to see me," he interrupted. He had twisted his scarred mouth into a mock pout.

The scars. They'd healed thoroughly, yet without his signature makeup, they appeared raw and swollen. He periodically flicked his tongue out to assuage the infection, she was sure, but she'd need to get him on an antibiotic as soon as possible.

And a detox routine.

"Good afternoon, Mister Joker," she smiled politely. He drew his brows together and stared at her in childish disbelief.

"Mister Joker? What's… uh, with the formalities, Harl?"

She raised a hand to clear her throat. "If you would please, call me Doctor Quinzel," she gestured. He stared at her dubiously and shook his head.

"Wha_**t**_?"

"It's to maintain professionalism in our doctor-patient relationship," she attempted a weak smile.

"Doctor…Patient…_Relationship_?" he spat.

"It is my understanding, Mister Joker, that you personally requested me as your psychiatrist. Now, this goes against protocol, as normally we would have you evaluated by a multitude of professionals before assigning you a permanent psychiatrist, but I was told you were… insistent."

He exploded into laughter.

"Fuck, how long has it been? You must be rusty, Harl. I understand… I understand. Daddy hasn't been around to fine-tune his gal. Want me to rev you up? You've got some kinks that I can definitely shake out."

He winked and her face reddened. "That's extremely inappropriate," she scoffed. "Please do not speak to me in that way."

"I mean, I'm sure a shmuck or two has taken a ride, but we both know that I'm the only one who can really work a Harley," he grinned darkly.

"Please stop," she demanded feebly.

"Harley? Harrrrrley? Harleeeeyyyyyyyy," he whined loudly.

"Stop –"

"Harrrrrlllleeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy y –"

"It's Dr. Quinzel," she finally snapped.

"Fuck you, Doc. I want Harley," he snarled, snapping forward. A dark rage clouded his eyes and she shifted uneasily in her chair. She briefly jotted:

_Mood swings have worsened exponentially_

"She's right here," she relented with a sigh.

"No. No. No no no no no no. I want her. I want her. I want Harley. I want _my_ Harley. I want her," he wailed. He began stomping his feet against the ground in a tantrum. She stared at him in disbelief.

"I'm right here," she repeated, "I'm here. I am your _Doctor_, Mister Joker. Do you understand? We do not have a personal… relationship."

He stared at her incredulously before declaring, "Harley… We have _fucked_ in every… meaning… of… the… word."

* * *

**Ten Years Ago**

_Fifty pairs of eyes shot up to drink her in. In response, she idly smoothed out her black dress, naïve to the predatory leers prying at her full hips. Or perhaps, she was keenly aware and simply chose to ignore her audience. She strode confidently down her tarnished catwalk, her crown of tousled golden hair bouncing lightly. A myriad of stares scanned her dress, which was about an inch too short, down to her scuffed burgundy Docs. Several boys toward the front of the bus whistled at her, pushing out their letterman jacket-clad chests at the new piece of meat. She ignored their vulgar catcalls and continued forth, passing by several venomous female leers before deciding on the only open seat toward the back right corner of the bus. _

_Mutedly, she noted the passing scenes of Gotham's urban decay from her chipped bus window and pondered if she could ever consider such a place to be home. She'd moved from Brooklyn in June and had festered all summer in a foreign, unforgiving city. Today was the first day of school - the first peer-to-peer interaction she would have - all within the walls of the adolescent cesspit known as Gotham High. Other than busting her ass waitressing at the Iceberg Lounge all summer, she'd hardly had social interactions with the people of Gotham. Instead of saving her money she'd been blowing it on hour-long trains back into New York. It's not that she exactly had an abundance of friends there either, but she missed it. She missed Brooklyn. _

_The bagels, the bodegas (not "delis"), the attitude. Yiddish was practically a second language to her. Not only because her mother was Jewish, but because it was a quintessential part of life in Brooklyn. And she couldn't understand for the life of her why stoops didn't exist in Gotham. _

_Half the mob practically originated in Bensonhurst… She'd been getting free meals at the best Italian joints in town since she was fifteen – a gratuitous and permanent result of a brief fling or two with a couple of mob princes. Though it wasn't exactly paradise (the Feds referred to it as Crooklyn), it was home. It had made her. Her accent, her charm, her toughness. She knew exactly how to charm a mob boss and had the bodega guy on the block calling _her_ "boss." _

_She knew what it was to love a city, though she knew perfectly well that a city didn't have to love you back._

_She stared out into Gotham's abyss and crinkled her nose. It had an insidious media reputation, and though she'd suspected that the Lounge had its share of mob connections, she had yet to see the city's true underbelly. All she knew, at this point, was that this city hated her. And she hated it right back._

_At this, she popped her headphones in and blasted the volume. _

_Immediately, she felt someone tap her left shoulder. She turned around, only to be greeted by an empty seat. Puzzled, she turned back around and suddenly froze: there was now someone sitting next to her, sluggishly waving a flexed hand in her face. She pulled out an ear bud just in time to catch him croon,_

"_Hellllllooooo…"_

_She blinked several times before forcing out, "hi."_

_"Whatcha listening to, toots?" The stranger leaned in, peering directly into her large, baby blue eyes. He was grinning wildly._

_She stared back into a set of muddy brown ones. A mop of loose sandy brown waves crept past his ears, the ends of which were beginning to curl slightly at the base of his neck. He had a handsome, masculine face that was complemented by a strong jawline. Yet there was something unnerving about his wide grin, the way that the corners of his lips pulled upward violently, stretching across his entire face and framing a set of complete, glinting teeth. Harley fought the sudden urge to trace her finger over them. _

_Instead, she forced herself to pick at the hem of her dress before coyly replying, "Killing Joke."_

_His eyes immediately lit up. The murky fog glazing his irises lifted, leaving behind a mischievous gleam. "I love them," he purred._

_His grin widened, stretching further across his face. The deep laugh lines around his dark eyes creased and she became nearly concerned that his face would split in two. _

_"You do?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. A smile began to dance at her lips; his grin was certainly infectious. Suddenly, he grabbed the dangling headphone and popped it in his ear. He began bobbing his head and mouthing the lyrics, which invoked an impressed grin out of his new acquaintance._

_A cacophony of post-punk raucous blasted their eardrums, filling the silence left between them. They sat contentedly, two strangers, alone together in an obscure musical world. _

_Several minutes passed before he nudged her bare knee with his. _

"_What goes plop, plop, fizz, fizz?" he turned to stare at her expectantly._

_She looked back at him and chewed her lip thoughtfully. It had sounded like the most important question in the world… one that she didn't know the answer to. _

_She conceded with a shrug._

"_Twins in an acid bath," he shouted gleefully. The corners of his mouth stretched into a glinting grin._

_She stared at him for a moment with wide, unblinking eyes. The silence between them began thickening ostensibly, despite Killing Joke raging in their ears. __Yet suddenly, a genuine beam engulfed her face and a tinny giggle escaped her throat. She clasped her hand over her mouth, attempting to stifle her titters. They erupted from her lips, evolving into a raucous, shrill cackle and she squeezed her eyes shut. Her tiny body began to tremble with ugly, metallic laughter. _

_He stared at her, shocked. His ears began ringing at the jarring volume and surrounding seats turned to glare at her._

_What a laugh. What a _laugh_. He was marveling._

"_That's horrible," she sputtered. "I don't know why I'm laughing. That's horrible."_

_She threw her head back to freely cackle, and that's when he noticed the faded purple splotches on her neck, formerly hidden by a curtain of hair. An inkling of curiosity trickled through his conscience. _

_Suddenly, the bus lurched to a stop and people began rising to lumber off. Harley had sputtered out the last of her giggles and started to stand as well, but her seatmate pulled her back down by the wrist. She stared at him quizzically and he leaned in close to her face. She could count all of his laugh lines - a plethora of creases from years and years of smiles. He seemed so happy._

"_What's your name, dollface?" he purred. _

_She smiled simply. "Harley."_

_"Like the motorcycle?" he grinned._

_"Like the motorcycle," she nodded. There was a pause before adding, "What's yours?"_

"_Jack."_

"_Jack the joker," she giggled. _

"_That's me," he beamed._

* * *

"Hellllllllllooooo…" he waved a flexed hand. "You there, kiddo?"

She shook herself from the memory and returned his expectant gaze.

"Oh! Oh yes. Yes, I apologize," she smiled sheepishly. He arched a brow.

"Lost you for a bit, there, Harl. Where'd you run off to in that fucked up head of yours?" he tilted his head in feigned curiosity. She ignored the question and picked up her pencil, poising it.

"I thought that maybe we'd like to discuss some of the things you've done," she gestured at him.

"Aren't you going to ask me my name?" he grinned deviously. "I thought that's the first question shrinks ask. You're clearly not very good at this, baby. That's okay… That's what happens when you cheat…and…or…sleep your way through med school."

"That's quite presumptuous of you," she issued coldly.

"Oh, but you were never that bright! It's the only _reasonable_ explanation… Though I'm certainly not a man of reason. What would I know?" he giggled darkly. She glared at him silently.

"You can fool all of these people… But you can't… fool… me," he drawled.

"I'm not fooling anyone," she scowled.

"Don'_**t**_ lie. Don't… lie… to me. I know you better than you know your sad self. How about I tell Jerry about all the times that we got fucked up together? Like the time we did all that blow in the bathroom stall at the Grin and Bare It? And you were _so_ tweaked out that you punched me for…quote…_flirting_ with the bartender." He started to laugh hysterically.

"Hello," he leaned one way, speaking to himself. "Can I get a -"

"And BAM!" he shouted, jerking suddenly to the other side. He shrieked in laughter and shook his head. "Or… or… that time we stole that bottle of champagne from the Iceberg Lounge? That was what… like a hundred grand? A hundred grand! Ha! Hahaha! I thought Cobblepot was going to _kill_ you! And that was your idea, by the way. I merely did your evil bidding."

She lowered her eyes to her notepad and shifted uncomfortably.

"You were a riot! An absolute riot!" He cackled.

"I'm not like that anymore," she pressed in a hard tone. He stopped laughing abruptly.

"Oh I _know_," he sneered. "But what are you now? Hm? A Doc_tor_? A respec**t-**able member… of… society? You probably pay all of your bills. And donate to charity. And you help out at the soup kitchen. And children and the elderly love you, and cats love you, and flea-infested rats love you, because everything and everyone fucking loves you."

"Stop – "

"I'm also sure you have a perfect boyfriend, who visits your perfect apartment, where you have perfect sex for two minutes, but then after you touch yourself to a guy like Bruce Wayne. Oh, and then after _that_, you cry, because your life is so goddamn sad." He twisted his face into a mock pout.

"Are you done?" she asked flatly.

"Or… do you touch yourself to me?" he giggled. "You know, I hear that dames _love_ a bad boy."

"That's enough," she snapped and a dribble of spit flew out from her bottom lip.

"Okay," he smiled darkly, "since _you're_ the big shot here… What would you like to talk about, toots?"

She took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself.

"Well, Mister Joker," she cleared her throat. "How do you feel about what you've done over these past couple of months? Certainly your nihilistic philosophy has had great influence on your actions."

"_Nihilistic_?" he arched a brow. "You think I'm a nihilist?" he grinned wildly and began cackling.

"Sure," she nodded. "Life is a black joke to you. There's no purpose."

"Oh, but there is," he interjected flatly. "Sure, there's no moral purpose… Morality…doesn't…exist -"

"So then you admit that you're a moral nihilist," she interrupted. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Don't give me that Nietzsche bullshit. There… is… a purpose. Would you like to know what that is?"

"Please."

"We live in a…civilized society, correct? We have, for thousands of years, constructed this idea of…order. Civil obedience. Now, you see, society cannot live without crime. If society didn't have crime, it would create it. And here's…why… Deviance is… the measure by which _civilized_ people create boundaries. They look at my actions and think… well, he's an animal. He's not one of _us_. But what happens when the chips are down? How civilized are they then? Where do you draw the line between me and anyone else? You see… order is so…inconsistent. Now that's a paradox, you say. How can order be inconsistent when it's inherently stable?

"Because it can quickly unravel," she offered.

"Exactly," he pointed at her. "But you know what's constant? Hmm? It's…chaos. It can never devolve or disappear altogether. You can…never…eliminate it entirely. Chaos is all around us. It's civil disobedience in society. It's nonlinear regression in physical and mathematical modeling. The Greeks said that chaos preceded the creation of the universe… That the gods and cosmos were born from chaos. Chaos is the true foundation of reality. You see… I'm an _agent_ of chaos. It is life's truest constant. And it's my duty to help distribute it.

"How long have you been a proponent of Greek mythology?" she asked before scrawling down:

_chaos theory?_

"For as long as I can remember."

"Greek mythology does happen to be imaginative -"

"You don't understand…my reality," he snapped. "You don't understand the truth about the world… So you call me… _crazy_. Because I don't fit within _your _paradigm. You people… You people have no idea. The joke's on you. And none of you understand the punchline."

"Please help me understand," she begged.

"God, your altruism makes me sick," he sneered. "It's always made me sick. What you don't understand is… that… there is no good in people. We're only as good as the world allows us to be… And what has the world done for you? Hmm?

"It's done plenty for me. I'm happy."

"No you're not. No…you're…no_**t**_," he paused. "Would you like to know the difference between me and… humanity?"

An aching, charged silence filled the room, and she heard her heart thundering in her ears as he finally said,

"One bad day."

A lingering pause followed.

"Plenty of people have bad days," she finally offered.

"What was your bad day?" he snapped angrily. "Hmm? You chip a nail or something? Spill some red wine on your favorite dress?"

"You know I've had bad days," she whispered sadly, more to herself than anyone.

He suddenly sprang up and lunged across the table, tackling her out of her chair and pinning her underneath him. He wrapped his fingers firmly around her neck and she sputtered for air, attempting to muster a scream.

"Shshshshshsh," he assuaged, lowering his face down to hers. She struggled underneath him, squirming and clawing at his hands. "Now… don'_**t**_ even think about screaming," he exhaled hotly against her lips. She stared into his deadened coal eyes and finally surrendered, going limp underneath his weight. He loosened his grip slightly and grinned.

"Good girl," he cooed. He watched the tears leak down her terrified face and rattled her neck slightly.

"Do… you… know… how many times… I've thought about… killing you?" he smiled darkly and glowered into her watery eyes. "How many…ways… I've thought about doing it? Ha! I'd dream about it if I could!" he cried out and shook her harder. Her ragdoll head lolled against the floor and she clenched her eyes shut.

"Just do it," she squeaked.

"Not yet," he muttered, "I want to know something first."

She could feel him breathing against her as she struggled to breathe herself. Her eyes began to roll around in her head as darkness crept into her vision. His voice sounded so far away, like they were underwater…

"Was this how envisioned it?" he sneered. "When you rode off into the sunset on your high horse, and you somehow… Somehow managed to earn a couple pieces of embossed paper… Did you think that you were going to make a difference to the world? That you were going to change lives and be this deliverance of redemption for society's downtrodden? I'm sure that you did…"

He stared into her pallid face and realized that she was beginning to slip away. He loosened his grip on her and she immediately began coughing for air. As she regained a sliver of coherence, she stared at him and quickly unraveled into a sobbing fit. A combination of snot, tears, and smudged mascara streamed down her face and he spat out a guffaw; she was never a pretty crier.

"After all these years… You still never switched to waterproof," he chuckled. He released a hand from her throat and smeared her makeup around liberally, finger-painting like a child. His long fingers rubbed against her soft skin, almost in a rough caress. He worked on his canvas for a moment and finally stopped to inspect his handiwork; mascara streaks stained her pink cheeks and her eyes were almost entirely enveloped in black. He was pleased.

She opened her eyes to meet his demented gaze and he was grinning madly.

"Can you just get it over with?" she whispered. He arched a brow.

"Do you _want_ to die?" he narrowed his eyes.

"No! No… It's just… I-I just always knew that it would be y-you," she squeaked.

"Wha_**t**_?"

"I always knew that you would have to kill me," she sniffed, "e-ever since you c-came back. B-b-ecause I-I'm y-your last l-link to h-h-h -"

"Spit it out," he snapped impatiently.

"H-humanity," she sputtered.

His vision went red and he imagined bashing her head into the floor until blood leaked out her ears. He imagined every fragment of her shattered skull rattling around in her head. He imagined her blue eyes, her blue fucking eyes, the bluest eyes in the fucking world, popping out. He imagined stabbing them with her pencil, over and over and over until they were no longer. He imagined the glorious smile that he carved into her face using her car keys. And finally, he imagined walking away and laughing as if he had never laughed before.

But he didn't do any of these things. He didn't do any of these things, and he wasn't entirely sure as to why. Instead, he got off of her and stared down at her. She began coughing uncontrollably and he sneered. She was pathetic. She was so pathetic that she didn't even deserve death. She revolted him in every possible, so much so that he couldn't even bear to be in the same room as her. With that, he reached under her desk to press the emergency security button and lumbered back to chaise before plopping down.

He listened to her hacking for a moment longer and ground his teeth together to block out the sound. Seconds later, three security guards busted through the door and wrenched him to his feet. He began laughing maniacally.

"Shut up, clown!" one guard barked. Another ran over to Harley and pulled her to her feet.

"Doctor! Doctor, are you alright?" he shouted. She began heaving heavily and nearly collapsed into his arms. He held her up dutifully and scanned her streaked face. Her neck had turned a ghastly combination of blue and purple and he winced.

"Well, boys, reunited at _last_," the Joker cackled.

"Shut the fuck up," the guards snarled, shoving him out the door. His proverbial laughter bounced off the hallway walls and lingered in the room, ringing in her ears, haunting her.

She felt the bile bubble in her throat, the clench in her gut that twisted daggers into her sides. Her head fell into the guard's shoulder and she choked out a sob. She wept, and wept, and wept. She wept until nothing came out anymore. No tears, no sounds, no anguish. She had wept herself numb.

Her world had been silent for so long. Because he had left it. Or rather, she had left him. She should have known that he would come blazing back into her life, leaving a wake of destruction and agonizing memories. She had spent years and years precariously constructing the fortress of her new life and he had merely waltzed through the front gate. All with a laugh.

* * *

_"'Ow old did yuh say you were again, sweetheart?" The squat man inquired. She had to admit that the distinct Cockney accent still managed to throw her off slightly; she'd grown accustomed to the thick, sluggish speech that graced the mouths of Gothamites and New Yorkers._

_"Seventeen," she responded sweetly, pulling her lips into a charming smile._

_The balding man chuckled and leaned forward to adjust the monocle perched on his left eye. "Seventeen, eh? You certainly dun look seventeen…" he mused, ogling her carefully. _

_It was true. Save for her youthful face, Harley had already developed the full curves of a woman – curves that happened to be showcased gratuitously in her black waitressing dress. It also helped that she'd swiped some crimson lipstick on… The tips weren't exactly chump change at the Lounge, but she'd become masterful at securing several hundred dollars in just a night if she worked her cards right. _

_Her red mouth had twisted itself into a dangerous smile._

"_Is that a problem, Mr. Cobblepot?" she asked innocently. Oswald Cobblepot chuckled lightly in response._

"_Of course not, my birdie. It's good fuh business…" he twittered, reaching up to adjust her black bowtie. He patted her shoulder briefly before turning to waddle off._

"_I love Ozzy, but you should have seen what he made us wear a year back," a voice whispered in her ear. It belonged to Raven, one of the other waitresses. She was precariously balancing a large tray littered with empty martini and wine glasses. _

"_Tell me about it," Lark, the hostess, approached and rolled her eyes. _

"_We looked like Playboy Bunnies. Corset, tights… the works," she sighed, flipping her blonde hair back. Raven nodded and gestured to her tray._

"_It's like we're asking them to try something," she made a face._

"_I don't really mind," Harley shrugged. "All of these schmucks are rolling in cash. We look good, they get drunk, and they throw us their extra money. It's a great formula."_

"_You're preaching to the choir. How else do you think I'm paying my college tuition? Anyway, Table 17. All you," Lark pointed to her and then the table situated near the large penguin ice statue. Harley glanced toward the center of the room where a small group of men sat. She began walking toward them, her black heels clacking loudly against the hard cold floor._

"_Welcome to the Iceberg Lounge," she smiled warmly, approaching the table._

"_Can I start you gentlemen off with something to drink?" _

_She glanced at the four men expectantly. They were dressed exceptionally well, even for the Lounge. Suddenly, the man sitting closest to her gingerly removed his black fedora and rested it on the edge of the table. He briefly adjusted the fleur-de-lis cufflink on his black Armani suit and looked up at her with familiar murky eyes. _

_A chilling grin spread across his face. _

"_Well hello there," he purred with the faintest tinge of a Southern drawl. His aging blonde hair was slicked back carefully, though he lifted a hand to smooth down a single disobedient lock above his ear. Harley was paralyzed by déjà vu; she had seen this face before._

_Jack._

_She stared back into the eyes that had been passed down to him and flashed her best million-dollar smile. _

"_Good evening, Sir. Can I start you off with something to drink? Perhaps you'd like to browse our excellent cigar selection?"_

"_Hmmm…" he drew out carefully, roving his dark eyes over her body. "I'd like to have you served on a plate." He winked at her and his Cheshire cat grin stretched wider across his face. The table burst into laughter and she forced a strained chuckle._

"_I'm afraid that I'm not on the menu," she countered lightheartedly. He chuckled openly. _

"_Tell me, sweetheart, where's a cute accent like that from?"_

"_Brooklyn," she beamed proudly. Before he could open his mouth to speak, a theatrical voice interrupted them._

"_Sorry I'm la__**te**__," a familiar voice announced. _

_Harley watched as Jack slid into the seat next to the grinning man. He shook off his black suit jacket and sloppily draped it onto the back of his chair. After rolling the sleeves of his light purple shirt up to the crooks of his elbows, he fumbled for the glass of water in front of him. He slammed the drink back and licked the right corner of his mouth before setting the glass down with a _thud_._

"_You can't even show up to fucking dinner on time, you little _shit_," the man next to him growled. _

_Jack glanced at him with disinterest before turning his attention to their waitress. When he met Harley's stare, he froze. They gawked at one another silently, and she noticed the dead glaze in his dark eyes. The way his shoulder occasionally twitched. His clenched jaw. He sniffed loudly, flaring a raw nostril and giving him away._

_He was coked out of his mind._

_Suddenly, a crass guffaw exploded from one of the men. "Check it out fellas, looks like Jacky Boy is in love," he cried, slapping the table._

"_He fuckin' wishes! Too bad he gets to go home to his hand tonight!" Another howled. The men chortled loudly, though he continued to stare at her silently._

"_Can I offer anyone a drink?" she abruptly interjected. The laughter began to die down as the men fired off their orders._

"_A Manhattan."_

"_Same."_

"_Gin and tonic."_

_She obediently jotted the drinks down, only pausing to glance up at Jack._

"_And for you?" she smiled warmly. He gazed at her vacantly before wiping the back of his hand across his nose._

"_Um," he sniffed loudly, "scotch and soda."_

_His father smiled. Hers fell._

"_Can I see some ID, please?" she asked sweetly. Her large doe eyes swam with apology; she knew for an absolute fact that he was underage. He shrugged languidly and rummaged through his black slacks before brandishing his ID. She was slightly shocked that he managed to present her with anything at all but examined his fake nonetheless._

_The photo was him smiling goofily at the camera. Gotham resident. 21 years old. Organ donor. She swallowed a giggle at the last tidbit because, despite the fact that she'd only known him for a week, she knew that was utter bullshit._

_She handed it back to him and chirped, "Thank you, Sir." _

_He winked at her. _

"_And for you?" she turned to his father._

"_I'll have a Johnnie Blue on the rocks, sweetheart. Make it a double," he declared. She nodded obediently and noted his order. _

"_Though are you sure there's nothing like you on the drink list? I would just love to lap you _up_," he grinned._

_She smiled sweetly before holding out her fingers, counting them off. "I can offer you Johnnie, Jack, Jim, or Dom, and from the looks of it, you've already selected _Mister_ Walker from our list." _

_Jack scoffed loudly and tossed back his glass. He began to crunch noisily on an ice cube._

_The man to his left laughed raucously. "I like you, sweetheart… You know… you remind me of Betty Grable. The gal with the million-dollar legs. Boy, was she a knockout," he mused loudly, "I mean, literally. My old man had her tattooed right here," he tapped at his forearm. "It was some great ink, I'm tellin' you. A proper pin-up. Great tits, great legs, a big beautiful smile. One helluva knockout. You know why?"_

_Harley shook her head._

"_She was the last thing I saw every time my old man started walloping me for being a disrespectful little _shit_," he leered at Jack venomously. _

_His son glanced at him blankly before fishing out another ice cube and popping it into his mouth. He chewed it deafeningly, mouth open, water dribbling down his chin._

"_I'm sorry to hear that," Harley interjected meekly. Jack's father snapped his attention back to her and chuckled._

"_Oh don't be sweetheart. It's nothing to worry your pretty little head over. Now… how about that drink?"_

_An hour and ocean of whiskey later, Harley returned to the raucous table wielding dessert menus. "How's everyone doing?" she chirped cheerfully. The men were rip-roaring drunk, save for Jack, who was silently picking at his New York strip steak. An obvious consequence of his high. _

"_Sweetheart!" Jack's father slurred languidly and beckoned for her._

"_Sir," she smiled politely, "can I offer you our dessert menu?" _

_She took a step forward and presented it carefully in front of her petite body. He swatted it away and latched his fingers around her wrist, jerking her forward in one fluid motion. Before she could react, he had grabbed her hips and planted her firmly on his thigh, holding her underneath a vice grip. A deep shade of crimson flushed her round cheeks and a chorus of laughter thundered in her ears. She squirmed underneath his grasp, desperately aware of his hot, heavy breath lingering at her neck._

"_Look at me, sweetheart," he purred. She jerked her chin up and caught Jack's stare. An unidentified emotion flashed across his black eyes before they resumed their standard, vacant glaze. _

"_I said, _Look. At. Me_," his father barked and she reluctantly met his hungry leer. _

"_Now, you have been an absolute gem," he cooed, his Cheshire cat grin returning. "Nothing short of an angel." Suddenly, his hand grabbed her face, squeezing her cheeks hard between his fingers. _

"_And that's why I'd like to give you _this_," he brandished a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his jacket lapel and carefully tucked it into her cleavage. "As a token of our gratitude."_

_She glanced down at her tip and hot tears began to sting her eyes. "Thank you," she strained through clenched teeth._

"_Oh no," he chuckled, "thank you." He suddenly let get of her face and placed a hand just below her hip, snapping the string of her thong through her dress. Her cheeks deepened in color and she hung her head shamefully._

"_Stop _i**t**_," Jack growled quietly. His father swiveled his head to him._

"_What the fuck did you say to me?" he spat, bewildered. Jack's black eyes narrowed and the right corner of his mouth curled into a snarl._

"_You heard me." _

_Suddenly, his father shoved the petite blonde off his lap and she crumpled to the ground. _

_His fist connected with Jack's jaw in a lightning motion. Harley watched in horror as his head snapped back, spraying droplets of scarlet blood into the air. The gold class ring on his father's right hand had shredded through the flesh of his lip. Jack's own hand instinctively flew to clutch his face and she watched as his shoulders began to shudder violently. He snapped his head up, akin to that of a Jack-in-the-box. The corners of his mouth were split into a vicious grin, stretching across his face to reveal all thirty-two of his bloodied teeth. A disquieting darkness clouded his coal eyes as his tongue flicked out to slowly lick the blood from the corner of his lip. He looked utterly demonic. _

_But it was not the smile that betrayed his humanity. It was the laugh. That laugh. It was a harrowing, blood-curdling laugh; the kind that kept one up at night and violated the mind in a way that was irreversible. It was a raw, wicked noise that garishly ripped from his throat. Yet the distorted noise escaping him twisted itself into a screaming cackle, one that began to attract the attention of surrounding tables. Harley felt herself shudder… there was no joy in this laugh. _

"_What's so funny?" his father bellowed. Jack continued to scream in laughter. _

"_Do it again," he cackled gleefully. "Come on, I want you to do it. Do it again. Hit me." _

_His nefarious grin spread. _

"Hit me_," he barked darkly. His father raised his fist once more but before it sprung, a distinct Cockney accent stopped him._

"_Get out of my establishment you worthless tit," Oswald Cobblebot snarled. The entire table turned their attention to the squat Englishman._

"_Why is it that every single one'a you mobstas thinks that you can take a dump whereva? That's right, boy, yuh shittin' in my turf right now. Eatin' my food, drinkin' my liquor, touchin' one uh my birds. Shittin' all ova yuhself. Didn't Falcone teach you any betta? Keep yuh personal business behind closed doors. Now get the fuck out uh here before I lose more customers, you bloody pillock." _

_Despite his squat stature, the balding man was a bundle of absolute wrath; he had effectively rendered the men speechless. He turned to Harley and firmly stood her up._

"_O'right love, it's o'right," he cooed, smoothing out her shoulders. In her heels, she had to look down dishonorably at her stubby boss. _

"_Why don't you go on back an' wash up. Hm? Yuh feathas ah lookin' a bit ruffled." _

_Harley was shaking violently by the time she burst through the door to the "Employees Only" backroom. She began heaving rapidly and clutched at her stomach, desperate to cleanse the lingering filth that threatened to pilfer her bones. Her quivering fingers angrily fished the bill out of her cleavage and crumpled it before chucking it to the ground. Boiling tears clung to her eyes and she furiously smoothed out her dress, trying desperately, so desperately, to keep herself together._

"_Harley," that voice rang out quietly. She paused; she knew that voice. Even after a week, she knew that voice. That peculiar inflection he used with certain words, almost as if he caressed each syllable lovingly in his mouth before it drawled out his lips. _

_She spun around vehemently and balled her wet fists, knuckles turning stark white. They drank one another in for a moment. Dried flecks of blood decorated the left side of his face and she duly noticed the raw fissure of a split lip at the corner of his mouth. He watched her carefully as she raised a quivering hand to smooth down a section of her disheveled hair._

"_What?" she finally snapped. "What do you want?" _

_He blinked at her languidly. Vacantly. _

"_You're high," she seethed between clenched teeth. "You're coked out of your mind." _

_He cocked his head and lazily shrugged his shoulders, much like an impetuous child who didn't understand the consequences of his actions. He started toward her. _

"_Don't get near me," she fumed, glaring up at him with burning eyes. He ignored her and continued to advance. _

"_What? Come to cop a feel just like Daddy?" she snarled, stopping him in his tracks. _

"_Which Daddy?" he sneered darkly. "Mine or yours?"_

_Her face froze, paling to an ashen shade before erupting into a reddened rage._

"_What the fuck did you say to me?" she screeched. _

_In a flash, his fingers wrapped around her slender throat and slammed her head into the back of the wall. A searing pain exploded at the back of her skull and her blurred eyes desperately tried to refocus his face. He pressed his nose to hers, baring his bloodied teeth._

"_Now, listen to me," he growled quietly. You don'__**t**__ get to talk to me that way."_

"_Fuck you," she hissed venomously and his grip tightened._

"_Someone has an attitude problem," he jeered, glaring into her narrowed eyes. "Makes… sense. I'm clearly no_**t**_ the first person to do _this_." _

_He pressed his fingertips harder against her skin and she began to choke. She sputtered for air, gasping and wheezing against his vice grip. Suddenly, her right fist connected with his split lip. He released her throat, reeling backwards from the clout._

"_And I'm clearly not the first person to do _that_," she hollered. _

_He was clutching his cheek, doubled over in laughter. Fresh blood trickled through his long fingers as he gasped for air._

"_Hahaha! Haha! Ha! Hoooooo! Watch out, ladies and gentlemen! This kitten can bite!" he whooped, snapping upright and gesturing at her theatrically. The proverbial grin plastered on his face grew as she firmly placed her hands on her hips._

"_I'm not laughing," she snapped. _

"_Oh, I know," he chuckled, "but why aren'_**t**_ you?" His grin grew wider and he was suddenly in her face again, cupping her cheeks in his hands. "Why aren't you laughing?" _

_He pressed her forehead down to hers, glowering into her baby blue eyes. She returned the glare and he could feel her shaky breath on his lips. It smelled faintly of mint and coffee. After a moment, he noticed something soften in her eyes. They had lost their militant glaze, and now, staring back at him, were a pair of large blue orbs rife with emotion. He faltered for a moment, startled by the sudden transformation. Suddenly, she choked on a small sob before burying her face into his shoulder. Within seconds she had unraveled and was now quaking violently, screeching out muffled sobs into his light purple shirt. He stood frozen in shock, completely unable to process the situation before him. Yet after a moment, he held his hands up and stared down at her, annoyed._

_Who the fuck was this crazy broad? She was going to ruin his shirt._

_She began clutching at it, balling the fabric up into her hands. She pressed her small body against his, wailing loudly. His own tensed as he stared down at the hysterical blonde. He had surpassed uncomfortable in every meaning of the word. A painful moment passed before his chest eased ever so slightly._

"_Uh… It's… uh, okay," he finally muttered, awkwardly patting a hand against her back. His attempt backfired; she cried harder and clenched his shirt, pulling him into her. Goddammit. _

_Her hysteria was continuing to escalate until he sighed loudly. _

"_Jesus, Harley. I get clocked in the face twice and you don't see me having a goddamn meltdown," he snapped._

_She pulled away from him and craned her neck up to meet his gaze. Her mascara had streaked resplendently down her cheeks and she raised a hand to wipe her tears, unintentionally smudging her makeup further. _

"_Sorry," she sniffed. She hung her head shamefully and rubbed at her kohl-smeared eyelids, muttering a garbled string of expletives all the while. Unbeknownst to her, her little show had enraptured him with fascination. _

_He watched her for a moment, head inclined, interest piqued. Her irritated, watery eyes avoided him as she continued to exacerbate her smudged makeup in such a way that was almost hilarious. Finally, he reached a hand out to catch her chin and tenderly turned it toward him. He gently tweaked her face, inspecting her. They were watching one another carefully. Curiously._

_Her messy raccoon eyes made her natural ones pop jarringly. They were startling, both in size and shade. Yet he found it strangely appealing. He also noted the straight, taut line of her mouth and frowned. _

_No, no, no. That wouldn't do. No. Too serious._

_Silently, he lifted his thumb and gently brushed it along her bottom lip, softly smearing her red lipstick up past the corner of her mouth. He curved the smear upwards, stopping just below her cheekbone. He inspected his handiwork and nodded. She stared back at him and suddenly realized that she had stopped breathing. As she exhaled shakily, his fingertips skirted up her cheek. _

_By the time he realized it, he was slowly combing them through her thick hair. So silky. So blonde. She was _so _blonde. So… stupid. Brash. Broken. Pathetic. _

_So serious. _So_ serious. _

"_Jack," she mumbled, interrupting his train of thought, "I… I'm sorry for punching you. I shouldn't have done that. Your father… I…" _

_He narrowed his eyes and grabbed a fistful of her hair. He tugged it back, jerking her chin up toward him. His six foot two frame towered over her and he lowered his face down to hers, stopping inches from her mouth. Her lips parted ever so slightly, perhaps out of fear. Or perhaps desire._

"_Harley," he drawled slowly, "I'm going to tell you something so you better listen very carefully." She stared up into his dark, lidded eyes and shivered. _

"Never_ apologize for anything that you do," he whispered, tickling her lips with his breath._

_He abruptly released her hair and turned around to pick up the crumpled bill on the ground. He pressed it into the palm of her hand and she wordlessly accepted it. As she watched him leave, she felt a wave of relief overcome her. Yet the moment it passed, she was left with an aching, hollow sadness. Out of nowhere, she started to giggle, for no reason at all, and didn't stop. Couldn't stop. It evolved into a sidesplitting laugh and she had to double over to support herself. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed until she couldn't feel a thing. She had laughed herself numb._

* * *

Thanks so much for even checking this out. Leave a review if you can! Also, I'd like to highlight a couple of things:

-Jack is not the Joker… yet. His storyline will ultimately culminate in his devolution (or evolution - take your pick) into our beloved Mistah J

-Young Harley is pretty bold – she went through a d/evolution as well to become Dr. Quinzel... But seriously, does anyone remember that BTAS episode where she beats Mistah J up with a police baton? The girl has spunk.

-At no point has Harley been Harley Quinn…yet


	2. Laughing With a Mouth of Blood

Normal font = present, italics = past (10 years ago)

DC owns everything.

* * *

Just like an amnesiac trying to get my senses back  
Oh, where did they go?  
Laughing with a mouth of blood from a little spill I took  
Oh, what are you laughing at?  
-_Laughing With a Mouth of Blood_, St. Vincent

Harley was given the following day off to recover from her first session with the Joker. Once they'd dragged him out of her office, she'd nearly suffered a nervous breakdown and was immediately whisked to Medical. After a basic psychiatric evaluation, which she passed, they treated her for a moderately bruised trachea and supplanted her with a prescription of extra-strength Ibuprofen before releasing her. Rather than heading off the island, she had stormed back into Jeremiah Arkham's office.

"Do you see this?" she'd screamed, pointing at her mangled neck. It had been twisted into a garish rainbow of reds, blues and purples, to the point where Dr. Arkham dropped his pen in shock.

"I can't do this," she continued, "he almost killed me. Look at me."

"Harleen, what –"

"He almost killed me," she shouted at him.

"The Joker did that?" his eyes grew large.

"Yes! I'm done. I'm done. I can't do this," she began pacing and ruffling her hands through her hair. Her superior stared at her blankly before shaking his head to and fro.

"No, Harleen. Just listen to me. Have a seat –"

"No!" she shrieked and planted her feet. "I won't do this. I can't."

"Harleen," he snapped. "But he _didn't_ kill you. He could have easily, but he didn't. That's… That's _fascinating_ behavior. Do you know how many people he's killed?"

She paused but began to shake her head furiously. "That's besides the point –"

"No it's not," he suddenly snarled and rose from his chair in an insidious wrath. He leered down at his young employee and pointed a bony finger at her.

"Now listen to me, Harleen. You will continue this case. You will. And you will not come to me anymore with your complaints. Because if you do, I will fire you. And not only that - I will make sure that no one in this entire goddamn city will hire you. Do you hear me? You'll be working a pole down on Park Row before Gotham Medical would even consider you as a bedpan cleaner."

She stared at him, mouth agape. Her cheeks flushed red as his threat began to sink in. He was an extremely powerful man; there was no doubt about that. He seemed to be in just about everyone's inner circle in Gotham, and unless she was in his, she was in no one's.

"Do I make myself clear?" he growled. She hung her head and began nodding despondently. He smiled curtly at her.

"Wonderful. Now, why don't you take the rest of the day off? Hell, take tomorrow off too. I don't care. Relax. Have a couple glasses of wine tonight. Go see some friends. Just don't think about it. But in two days time, you will be back. You will throw on a scarf, put on your big girl smile, and do your _job_."

He sat back down and was smiling cheerfully at her now.

"Now get out."

Meanwhile, in Intensive Treatment, The Joker had been placed under heightened security. At least one security guard was mandated to stand outside of his cell at all hours, despite the fact that public enemy number one was in no state to make an escape. He'd spent the majority of the past two days curled up against his bathroom partition, vomiting and laying awake in an insomniac stupor. He sporadically slipped into spurts of sleep, for maybe half an hour at a time. He didn't dream. If he did, on the off chance that a flicker of activity flashed through his mind, he dreamt in red. Red. No less, no more. No shapes or figures or speech. Red.

Consequently, his body was so consumed by exhaustion that he could barely crawl to and from his rusting toilet. He was being ravaged internally. A blood test indicated that he had been a regular cocaine and opiate user for years; the latter kept him awake, the former wanted him under. The withdrawal combination was teetering on the point of dangerous and threatened to become lethal. Every guard that was posted to his cell was instructed to have Medical on call at any point in time. They gave him a pills twice a day, for what, he didn't know, but he chucked them up just as quickly as he had to dry swallow them. The trays of unidentified slop came three times a day as well, though they quickly piled up in the corner of his cell. He figured he would rather die than eat whatever faux-beef concoction they delivered him. His mouth acted as a 24-hour hose, spouting hydrochloric acid, saliva and bits of orange and white pills.

On the third day of his detox and his ninth in Arkham, his stomach managed to hold its own for about an hour. He'd choked down his bitter pills and they appeared to keep his nausea at bay. He laid on the damp floor and spoke to himself in a half-dream state, weaving in and out of reality. In his fragmented stream of consciousness, he thought about killing the guard outside and making his escape. He delved into glorious, fractured fantasies about blood and screams and the demise of Gotham. His mind flickered through gorgeous scenes of chaos and destruction… A city in flames… A city bleeding to death… A city purged in darkness. He heard voices shrieking in his head – his own? The dying citizens? – and he laughed into the damp concrete floor. Whoever they were, they were good company.

A pounding on his cell door momentarily snapped him out of his delirious state.

"Get decent, clown, you got another session today," Frank Boles yelled through the door's porthole.

"Fuck you," he mumbled into the floor. The cell door opened and three guards entered, wielding batons and a straightjacket.

"Get that freak in this," Boles ordered and tossed the straightjacket onto the ground.

Seven minutes and no struggle later, the guards had delivered him to Dr. Quinzel's office. They shoved him down onto the brown chaise, waved at his psychiatrist, and departed.

Once they were left alone, she clasped her hands and stared at him expectantly. Though her black turtleneck managed to hide her grotesque bruises, no amount of cover-up could swathe the darkening bags underneath her sleepless eyes.

"Good afternoon, Mister Joker. How are you today?" she smiled curtly at her patient. He slumped forward and several locks of greasy green hair fell onto his forehead. His eyes closed in exhaustion while his scarred mouth parted slightly. It was clear to her that he was undergoing a fairly rough withdrawal: the circles under his eyes had worsened and his ashen face had been drained of all vitality. Further, the skin infection caused by his scars had spread.

"Mister Joker?" she asked, concerned. He ignored her and crashed down onto the bolted chaise. She watched his constricted chest rise and fall in shallow breaths as he struggled to get comfortable.

"Are you alright?" she pressed.

"Would… you… stop talking?" he finally drawled, lolling his head back and forth. He'd pulled his feet up to the chaise and curled his knees to his chest.

"I… I mean –"

"I… can't listen to your… stupid… voice right…now," he mumbled.

"Have you been taking the medication I prescribed you?" she asked, and paused before continuing, "the Suboxone is for the withdrawals and the Amoxicillin is for the…scars," she whispered the last word. He didn't respond and instead, began to snore lightly.

"This isn't naptime," she drummed her fingers impatiently.

"Leave…me…alone, Har…ley," he slurred, nestling his cheek into the plush chaise. She shifted uneasily around in her chair, unsure of what to do. His faint snoring resumed and she felt a slight twinge of pity for him. She briefly jotted:

_patient asleep during session - severe withdrawal symptoms _

_increase dosage?_

Several minutes dragged by, which she routinely spent doodling, checking the clock, checking her fingernails, and checking the clock, until he began garbling world salad.

Sta…tic… lolly…gag…ers…No. No… too… loud…Brush…your nee…dles…Pur-ple la…laughter go… not finger…nail…

She stared at him nervously. He was clearly in the middle of a psychotic episode and she was not willing to test his volatile state. She scratched down a couple nonsensical phrases yet scowled; they didn't mean anything. How could they?

Har…le…quin…

She glanced up at him and froze.

"Har...ley…quin," he drawled further. Her face paled as she jotted:

_harlequin_

_harleyquin_

_harleyquinzel_

She quickly erased the last line and her stomach began churning. Almost immediately, the Joker's leg twitched back to life. His eyes fluttered open and he groaned audibly into the chaise.

"How was your nap?" she asked evenly. His dark eyes flickered to hers and he blinked languidly for several seconds.

"You look like shit," he finally sneered.

"So do you," she smirked. His mouth curled into his proverbial grin.

"Heh."

"How are you feeling?" she pressed.

"How do you _think_?" he snapped.

"Are you eating? You should at least be drinking water. You must be extremely dehydrated."

"Blah… blah… blah…" he muttered into the leather fabric.

"I'm serious," she sighed.

"When are you no_**t**_…"

"Please don't do this," she begged and rubbed her temples.

"Would you just…shut…up," he snarled weakly. "Stop… nagging me."

"No. And besides, I thought maybe we'd like to talk about a couple of things today - "

"No."

"I-I'm sorry?" she stammered.

"No. Be quie_**t**_," he hissed. She stared at him for a moment before gritting her teeth together.

"You can nap in your cell," she suddenly snapped. His eyes rolled over to meet hers and he grinned cheekily.

"Mmmmmm…_ someone_ is cranky today. I'm still willing to shake out those kinks for you, Harl. Clear off that desk…unbuckle my straps and… we're good…to…go."

"Stop that," she scowled. He lethargically pulled himself upright on the chaise.

"You're no…fun," he sighed and rolled his eyes.

Suddenly, his nose crinkled and he sneezed explosively. Blood erupted out of his nostrils and streamed down his face like a running faucet, staining his white straightjacket. She froze in horror and wondered if he had blown out his septum. He giggled childishly and licked his bloodied teeth.

"Whoops," he glanced down at his soaking straightjacket. Harley had to choke down the rising bile in her throat.

"I'm calling Medical," she announced suddenly and picked up her desk phone.

"Oh don't do _that_," he rolled his eyes. "You're being _so_ dramatic. It's just a bloody nose."

She stared at him blankly and slowly put down the receiver.

"Bloody noses don't look like that," she sighed and gestured at him. "Perforated septums do."

He shook his head, despite that fact that the entire lower half of his face was now drenched in his own blood.

"Nope," he giggled, popping the '_p_'. "Happens all the time."

Harley squirmed in her seat and the silence in the room thickened ostensibly. Her patient shifted his eyes from side to side.

"Well… uh, this is awkward," he grinned. She eyed the box of tissues on her desk and hesitated; after the last session she wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. Yet she glanced back at him, and a dark memory flashed through her mind. It was potentially the darkest memory she had, one that lurked deep in the recesses of her subconscious and frequently found itself reemerging in her nightmares. He watched her carefully as she grabbed the tissue box and rose to edge her way to the front of her desk.

She leaned against her desk, cherishing its safe distance from the chaise. They stared at one another for a long moment before she took several small steps forward and offered him the box, an arm's length away.

"Uh… pretty tied up here," he hunched his shoulders. He was grinning at her now, baring his crimson teeth like some demented Cheshire cat. She hesitated again and glanced around the room in a desperate attempt for help. She finally conceded when she realized that it was just the two of them, and stepped forward until she was about a foot from him. He glanced up at her and widened his grin before she pulled out a tissue with delicate fingers.

Her hand was shaking violently as it approached his face and he watched her with dark glee dancing in his black eyes. He could feel her trembling fingers as she dabbed at his skin, and as their eyes met, he could see the fear in hers.

"Boo," he issued.

She reeled backward and nearly tripped over her heels, much to her patient's amusement. He was cackling gleefully.

"Awwww… Aw no, my little lamb. Don't want you dropping dead on the spot just _yet_," he hooted.

He watched her eyes well up with fearful tears and she bit her trembling lip.

"Don't cry," he demanded menacingly. "You keep fucking crying. It's _so_ irritating."

She sniffed hard and closed her eyes.

"Sorry," she murmured. When she reopened them, they were dry and she cautiously stepped forward to resume her dabbing routine. He could smell her baby powder skin and shampooed hair. She was so… clean. Perfectly manicured fingers continued to swathe his face, although they were becoming increasingly stained with blood. He was tainting her.

He grinned wildly.

He was tainting her.

He wondered how badly he could corrupt her. Distort her. Twist her. Break her.

Though, it wasn't exactly that she was pure. Ten years ago she was more mentally unhinged than he was. She was snarky and cunning and a grade A bitch. And he loved it. He'd seen more straws jammed up her nose than any junkie sliming around Crime Alley, and she was always…_always_ willing to shed her panties. He wasn't sure if there was a place in the city they hadn't fucked.

He wanted that girl. He wanted her but she was gone. Instead, he watched the girl he no longer knew and his scarred mouth twisted itself into a sneer.

"What?" she asked cautiously, stepping backward into a sea of crumpled, bloodied tissue wads. He tilted his head.

"What happened to you?" he asked darkly. She paused to silently register the weight of his question.

"I realized that not everything is a joke," she finally remarked in her best professional voice.

"Oh… but it… is."

"No. I'm afraid that I don't share your perspective on… jokes," she sighed.

"You're right, maybe it's because you're a stupid bitch," he suddenly snapped in rage.

She stepped backward guardedly and swallowed the lump in her throat.

"Or maybe it's because I don't hide my pain behind a fake smile anymore," she countered with a new edge of confidence. He threw his head back and began to scream in laughter.

"Is… Is that what you think this is? Hmm? That I'm some dejected, unloved creature who cuts my wrists because Mommy didn't love me?" he cackled.

"I know you," she raised her voice over his screeches, her confidence with it. "I know why you're always smiling."

"Oh… Oh ho ho ho… Oh you really don't," he snarled. "You really…don'_t_."

"Why don't we talk about your father, then? I think we both know that he wasn't particularly fond of your jokes," she gritted her teeth.

"No," he roared. "No. Why don't we talk about you? Why don't we talk about your fucked up life and your screw-ups and the fact that you ran away from all your problems, whereas I… made them… par_**t**_ of who… I… am."

He grinned widely, spreading his garish scars.

"Yeah," she nodded sarcastically. "All those years of cocaine and Oxy. Because popping pills isn't escapism."

"But dollface, _you_ were the one always running," he chuckled haughtily.

"That is not true," she snapped. "Besides, am I the one locked up in a cell right now? No. No, _I'm_ not the animal in the cage."

"Oh but you _are_, my little lamb. You just… haven't… sprung ou_**t**_… yet."

* * *

_She was sprinting, trying to gain as much distance as her short legs would take her. She didn't know where she was headed – she didn't even care – she just needed to get away. A scorching fire burned through her lungs as she was gasping for air, and by the time she stopped, she nearly collapsed onto the pavement. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, and heaved in and out._

Breathe_, she told herself._

_She watched the blood drip out of her nose onto the sidewalk as she struggled to regain her breath. It was almost therapeutic, in a sense. She couldn't feel the stinging clout, but as she watched the blood begin to pool at her feet, she figured that she must have been feeling something, somewhere. She straightened herself out and assessed the damage with her hand. Her face was numb. Swollen, but numb. She could taste her own rusty blood on her teeth but realized that her nose had slowed its bleeding. She couldn't determine if it was broken, however. _

_After a moment, she became acutely aware of just how unnerving Downtown Gotham could be at two in the morning. Three corroding streetlights struggled to illuminate the damp, musty street and a foul, unidentified odor wafted past her. Darkness lurked everywhere. She heard a metal clatter resonate behind her and she swiveled her head around. A thick dread slowly consumed her and she began running again. She whooshed past black alleyways and immediately turned the street corner. Her nose met with crisp, salty air and she realized that she had reached the docks of the East River. A strong ocean breeze blew past her, and she remembered learning in a geography class somewhere that the city sat smack in the middle of two rivers mouths that ultimately flowed into the Atlantic Ocean. _

_The city itself was subdivided into three isles: Uptown, Midtown and Downtown, which were all ultimately connected by a weave of bridges. The isle trifecta was nestled between a series of rivers and the Atlantic to the south. The Palisades, where the city's wealthy commuters resided, was attached to the western mainland. Its geography was similar to that of Manhattan, though it boasted a larger commercial seaport and shipping industry than that of New York. _

_She now realized that she was in the Downtown's East End, bordering dangerously close to the Park Row neighborhood, or what Gothamites lovingly (or wearily) referred to as Crime Alley. Blaring neon lights flickered against the night's murky sky, advertising for gentlemen's clubs and dive bars. She heard glass shatter behind her, followed by a raucous guffaw. It wasn't long until she was walking at an expedient rate again, head pivoting to and fro. She traversed the wharf of Gotham's Industrial District, a constructed nightmare of decaying metal and steel. The Sionis Steel Mill's smokestacks moaned in the near distance and she could barely make out the billowing smoke pouring into the black sky. This was the Gotham that constantly made the national news; it wasn't the fast-paced, hip bustle of Midtown or the profligate sophistication of Uptown. It was here. It was a young woman, walking alone on a September night a couple minutes past two a.m., staring into the blackest abyss she had ever seen. _

_On late, late nights in Brooklyn she'd occasionally pass out on the D Train by accident and end up in Coney Island. It was no matter to her though, as she'd end up stumbling over to the beach and napping in the sand for a couple hours. Yet she would somehow…somehow make it home just as the sun rose._

_She wasn't sure if she was going to make it home tonight though. _

_Her hair flapped in her face as another wind gust rushed past her. She began running again, until she ultimately came to a bridge's underpass, underneath which she could make out a lone, warmly lit establishment. As she approached the decrepit building, she made out the word "diner" on its poorly illuminated sign._

_She quickly ducked into the building and was met with an almost soothing warmth. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead and the faintest rumble of an industrial dishwasher whirred in the distance. There was nobody here other than herself, and as she glanced around at the peeling floral wallpaper and cracked tile floor, she wondered aloud how the place could even stay afloat. _

_After a moment, she precariously slid into a tattered red booth and picked up a menu. _

"Welcome to Mario's Diner! Open 24 Hours!_" was printed in cheap, blocky letters on the cover. _

"_Heya, welcome to Mario's," a sluggish voice interrupted, followed by a yawn. She glanced up at the waiter approaching her. He didn't appear to be much older than her, and he had black hair with a yellow pencil tucked somewhere in his flyaway curls. When his drowsy eyes connected with her face he froze. They widened visibly as he muttered,_

"_Whoa."_

_She shied from his gaze, suddenly ashamed of the dried blood caking her face. He noted the raw impact area, just left of her nose, and winced. It would leave a hell of a bruise._

"_Can I get a black coffee?" she asked sheepishly. He blinked at her for a couple more seconds before his brain registered her request._

"_Oh… oh yeah, sure," he nodded before pausing. "You…uh… you need anything else?" _

_She shook her head and he left. She began rubbing her temples; a creeping pain began to form as she slowly started to thaw from shock. She wondered how her mother was faring. Her weak, feeble, pathetic mother. The kind of mother who remarried to a complete deviant after her first husband died in combat. The kind of mother who let her man bust through the door completely loaded on whatever he was on, only to start slapping at anything and everything in front of him. He'd lost a bet, or something of the sort, and saw to it that both his wife and stepdaughter would pay for his sloppy blunder. _

_Harley buried her bloodied face into her hands. She was so tired of defending her mother from a raised fist. She had endured three years as a punching bag, simply because her mother had been the weakest person she'd ever known and she feared to envision her fate if her stepfather did not equally distribute his wrath. When her own father passed, her mother completely spiraled down the sanity chute. A mourning woman is not known to make rational decisions, so not even a year after Harley draped the military flag atop her father's casket, she was carrying a basket of flowers down an aisle for her mother. _

_The three years that followed their household were plagued by alcoholism, gambling and her mother's unlimited Xanax prescription. Harley often found herself daydreaming about taking the kitchen knife one day and taking it to Roger's pudgy belly and carving -_

"_Here," the waiter broke her train of thought as he placed the steaming mug in front of her. "And, uh, this is for you too."_

_She glanced up at him with a startled expression and he raised his eyebrows: he was holding out an icepack wrapped in a wet towel. Her stream of consciousness evaporated and she smiled shamefully, gingerly taking the generous offer._

"_Thanks," she murmured, pressing the towel to her face. _

"_You… need me to call someone for you or somethin'?" he scratched at the back of his neck. She shook her head and sighed._

"_No… Um… I think… I think I'll be okay," she nodded. Before he could respond, the door swung open. In stumbled Jack, clad in a black shirt and slacks, cigarette hanging between his lips. He grabbed it and exhaled._

"_Yo, Tony. I'm hungry," he announced._

"_Aw, c'mon, Jacky, what'd I tell ya about smokin' in here? My old man hates that shit," the waiter scowled. Jack rolled his eyes and flicked the cigarette._

"_He likes me better than you," he snickered. His dark eyes shifted to meet Harley's shocked gaze and he froze. _

"_No way," he muttered and squinted his eyes in disbelief. "No…way…"_

_He paused before sneering, "Are you following me or something?" _

"_I should ask you the same thing," she retorted. _

"_Wait, you know this gal?" Tony turned and gestured to her. His friend ignored him and lumbered his way over to the booth. He nudged her thigh with his knee._

"_Move," he ordered. _

_She shot him a glare but he easily pushed her across the booth seat with a swift motion his knee. Before she could protest, he immediately slid in next to her._

"_What the hell happened to you?" he demanded, peering closely at her face. The smell of Bourbon and tobacco filled her nostrils and stung her eyes. His bruise from two nights ago had developed quite garishly, as a purple-blue mass spanned from his cheekbone down to his mouth. The split lip from had scabbed over, though it stretched slightly as he spoke. She averted her eyes and ducked her head, suddenly humiliated that _he_ had seen her in this state._

"_Hey, I'm talking to you," he slurred past the cigarette in his mouth. He grabbed her chin but she jerked away from him._

"_Stop it," she finally snapped. An intense anger flashed through her large eyes, transforming her from fearful to feral. _

"_Stop it. I'm so sick of people touching me. Just stop it," she cried out hysterically. She'd slid to the corner and curled her legs up against her chest. He blinked languidly at her and finally sighed._

"_Tone," he turned over his shoulder. "Can you get me the usual?"_

_The dumbfounded waiter pinched the bridge of his nose before turning off and mumbling under his breath. Jack turned back to Harley, who was now curled up into her icepack. He scooted closer to her and stopped just before his body touched hers. Mutedly, he pulled the cigarette from his lips and dangled it in front of her face. She shot him a weary glance but after a moment, took it._

"_Thanks," she mumbled before taking a drag. A silent moment passed between them, through which the tension gradually subsided. Her face had relaxed a bit more and she finally swiveled her head to meet his stare. She removed the icepack from her face and offered it to him, to which he scoffed,_

"_What?"_

"_It's for your face, genius," she quipped before tossing it into his lap. She took several more drags from his cigarette and he stared at the cold blue square. Awkwardly, he placed it against his cheek and winced at its cool touch. _

_Meanwhile, she stubbed the cigarette out on a napkin and began wiping her face with Tony's towel. The white wash towel quickly turned crimson as she attempted to sponge the caked blood off her face._

"_What the hell are you doing here anyway?" he raised a brow. "This isn't exactly the neighborhood for a midnight stroll."_

"_What are _you_ doing here then?" she countered._

"_Stalking you, _obviously_," he sighed theatrically. She cracked a smile; she could tell he was in a good mood. His coal eyes from two nights ago had dimmed to a murky brown shade in which a flicker of humanity managed to shine through._

"_But really," she rolled her eyes. _

"_I was hungry," he shrugged and threw his thumb over his shoulder. "Tone over there is my boy. We go way back. His Dad owns the joint."_

_She glanced around the empty restaurant and pursed her lips._

"_Booming business," she muttered. "What is this? A front for the Mob or something?"_

_A silence followed and she glanced up at Jack, whose eyebrows were raised._

"_Oh."_

"_I'm surprised you're not cut up into a bunch of pieces," he scoffed. "I mean, I know you can pack a punch, but you sure you should be running around at this hour, toots?"_

"_Have you seen me?" she glared at him gloomily. "You think I just waltzed out the front door for a goddamn promenade?"_

_He grinned cheekily._

"_Touchy, touchy," he tsked. "You got a shithead boyfriend you need me to whack?"_

"_No."_

"_No wha__**t**__? You don't have a boyfriend or you don't want him whacked?" his grin grew wider. She glowered at him for a second before hiding her face in her towel._

"_I don't have a boyfriend," she finally mumbled. _

"_And why not?" he leaned in closer. She shot him an exhausted glance and sighed,_

"_Because I don't want one." _

"_And why's that?" his grin threatened to split his face in half._

"_I don't know... I've never had one," she muttered and resumed wiping at her face. He raised a brow and watched her carefully, assessing the statement. _

"_Heh," he finally smirked. _

"_What?" she eyed him, annoyed._

"_You look like shit," he shrugged. _

_He snatched the towel from her and cupped her cheek. His long fingers curled into her thick blonde hair and jerked her head forward. The purple bruises on her neck were still fresh from the other night and thus she wriggled her head in protest._

"_Goddammit," he sighed, "would you hold still?"_

_He leaned in closely to dab at her face and she stopped struggling at the towel's cool touch. She could smell him more clearly now as a musky combination of alcohol, tobacco and sweat wafted up her nostrils. His tongue flicked out to assuage his scab in astute concentration as he gently wiped at her blood. He cleaned most of her stained face, but as he dabbed around her nose, she winced. He grinned darkly at her reaction. Suddenly, he squeezed her nose between his index finger and thumb and shouted,_

"_Honk!"_

_She squeaked in pain and her fingers immediately flew up to cup her face._

"_What the fuck?" she cried out and he cackled. _

"_Oh, relax," he rolled his eyes. Her fingers gingerly stroked the bridge of her nose and she winced._

"_It's not funny," she murmured sadly. He blinked languidly at her, a peculiar expression on his face. His fingers tenderly cupped her chin and she attempted to lurch away._

"_Hey, hey, hey, hey," he murmured and raised a finger to her nose. She stopped struggling as he gently ran it across the bridge almost in a strange, ticklish caress. His dark eyes flickered to her ruby red mouth, fixated by her stained lips. _

_He tapped the tip of her nose._

"_Is it broken?" she hissed through clenched teeth._

"_Nah," he shook his head._

"_How do you know?" she pressed, leaning forward. His finger slipped from her nose to her lips as he leaned in as well._

"_You don't wanna know, Harley girl," he purred and her eyes lidded ever so slightly._

_Suddenly, a heaping plate of spaghetti plopped down in front of them. Jack snapped to attention, now entirely engrossed in the prospect of food._

"_The usual," Tony yawned and then glanced at Harley. "You sure you're good?"_

"_I'm good," she strained a smile. _

"_Aight," he shrugged, "well I brought this for you, just in case." He presented her with a fork and she tentatively accepted it. He turned to Jack and ruffled his sandy locks._

"_Behave yourself, pig," he snickered facetiously. _

"_Have fun jacking off in the back," he retorted. Tony jutted his thumb at Jack and shook his head._

"_This guy's a clown," he smirked at Harley before walking off. She shook her head in amusement and set her fork down. _

_Jack hunched over the table and began stabbing at the meal with carnal intensity, shoveling the pasta into his mouth. The loud _smack_s of his chewing were so uncouth that she raised her eyebrows. He glanced back at her and she couldn't help but laugh: tomato sauce sloppily stained his mouth and a dribble of red spit ran down his chin. _

"_What?" he asked, mid-chew. "It's really good." He pushed the plate toward her and she stared down at it. After a moment, she daintily picked up a single string and nibbled at the end. He watched her carefully as she furrowed her brow._

"_This is really good," she exclaimed, turning to him with big excited eyes._

"_I know," he beamed. _

"_Like, really good."_

"_I know."_

_He leaned over to shovel another bite before reaching for her fork._

"_How do you confuse a blonde?" he mused before swallowing his food. She glanced at him wearily and shrugged._

"_Paint yourself green and throw forks at her," he snickered and chucked the fork into her lap. She glanced at it, then up at him, utterly confused. She blinked for several seconds in a stupor until he saw a flicker of recognition flash through her puzzled eyes. As she finally registered the punchline, she lit up into a giggle and picked up her fork._

"_That's pretty good," she laughed as she stabbed her fork into the plate._

_She stayed giggling for the rest of the night, as he spewed joke after joke. He was hilarious. He spun vivid narratives for her and all kinds of hysterical witticisms. He was peculiar, that was for sure, but she didn't mind. She listened to him talk all night, like he was some philosopher or comedian or just another fucked up kid in a diner. He, in turn, reveled in her reactions, which turned into a continual cycle of mutual benefit: her laughter fueled his jokes, just as he fueled her laughter. She didn't make it home before the sunrise, just as she predicted, not because she was half-dead somewhere in an alley, but because she was very much alive._

* * *

I can't take credit for that anti-joke at the end. It's pretty awesome, though.

Thanks for reading. Please leave some feedback if you can :)


	3. This Fine Social Scene

Normal font = present day, italics = past (10 years ago).

DC owns everything.

* * *

I couldn't see the cracks  
In this fine social scene  
I couldn't find a fault  
With this whole pantomime  
- _This Fine Social Scene_, Zero 7

"Dr. Quinzel, do you have a moment?" Jeremiah Arkham called after his intern.

The petite blonde stopped walking and turned around expectantly.

"Yes?" she asked wearily.

"Am I interrupting something?" he prodded.

"No," she shook her head.

"Wonderful. Have you met Mr. Wayne? He's on the Board of Trustees here at Arkham," the warden beamed, gesturing at the well-dressed man beside him.

"Oh, hello!" she smiled, her icy gaze thawing. She immediately recognized him, considering the fact that the media was keen on capturing every moment of the socialite's life. He appeared in everything from peer-reviewed papers on economic analysis to the dredges of the gossip rags. It helped that the man had an MBA from Harvard's Business School, but his legacy as a Wayne cemented his name all over the city. Yet his influence also extended far past the city limits, as he was consistently ranked on Forbes' Top Ten Most Powerful CEOs List. Of course, he also happened to be Gotham's most notorious playboy, because that's what happens when a thirty-something year old has more power, fame and money than God.

His eyes shifted to meet hers and she suddenly understood why his legacy also included a lengthy laundry list of ex-flames. He was handsome in that quintessentially rugged All-American kind of way, complete with chiseled features, kempt dark hair, and contrasting blue eyes. It was clear that he regularly preened himself, or maybe he had hired someone to do it for him.

"You were that gymnast, weren't you?" he addressed her pointedly.

"Pardon?"

"At Gotham University. I think I was a couple of years older than you, but you were a big deal," he gestured emphatically.

He was referring to their mutual undergraduate alma mater, but of course, she knew that, because it was impossible to have_ not_ seen Bruce Wayne pulling up to the campus quad every day in his ostentatious silver Lamborghini.

"Oh! Well… Yes, that was me," she admitted sheepishly.

"Well then it's a pleasure to finally meet you. Bruce Wayne," he stuck his hand out with a charming, boyish smile. His warm blue eyes twinkled with sincerity, something that surprised her slightly.

"Harleen Quinzel," she chirped, returning the gesture.

"She went to the Olympics when we were in school," he turned to her superior.

"Trials," she corrected, "I went to the Trials."

"Still very impressive," he countered.

"I do remember that from her resume," Dr. Arkham chuckled before adding, "our newest intern is an impressive young woman."

He reached out to pat her shoulder and she stiffened visibly.

"An intern? You must be fresh out of med school, Doctor," Bruce teased.

"I'm about a year out," she smiled politely.

"Are you enjoying your internship?"

"Very much so," she nodded.

"You must be a sharp one," he wagged his finger playfully. "I hear you guys don't mess around in here."

"You are absolutely correct, Mr. Wayne," Dr. Arkham beamed.

She smiled as well, though her teeth were clenched so tightly together that it began to strain her jaw.

"Hey," Bruce began with a glimmer of curiosity in his eye, "is it true that that Joker guy is locked up in solitary somewhere?"

Harley and her superior exchange the briefest of glances before she cleared her throat.

"I'm afraid that we can't divulge that information," she stated.

"Oh come on, guys. It can be our little secret," he whined good-humoredly.

"My apologies, Mr. Wayne, but Dr. Quinzel is correct. It is strict Arkham policy that we do not divulge any information on our patients."

"Excuse me, I have a patient session I must see to," she smiled civilly.

"Oh well, actually, do you mind if I tag along for a bit?" Bruce glanced at her earnestly.

"Patient sessions are confidential, Mr. Wayne," she replied pointedly.

"Of course, of course," he nodded, holding his hands up. "I understand that much, at least. I was just interested in seeing how the WayneTech security system has been implemented in this particular facility. I could walk with you to your session."

"I'm not entirely sure if Intensive Treatment is the most appropriate place for a trustee to be exploring," she countered dryly.

"Of course it is, Dr. Quinzel," Dr. Arkham interrupted with a forced smile. "We are a transparent institution after all, are we not?"

She clenched her teeth harder and avoided her corrupt boss' heated stare. Of course Jeremiah Arkham would give into anything Bruce Wayne desired. If the former lived to suckle at the power teat, the latter was the man to do it from.

She conceded with a nod and the two began walking down the Transfer Loop of Intensive Treatment. Her heels clacked freely against the steel flooring and her companion was swiveling his head to and fro.

"It's pretty spooky in here," he remarked.

"It can be," she nodded.

It was true; Arkham Asylum was a nightmare. It was a sprawling compound of gothic architecture fitted with endless gargoyle buttresses, shadowy corners and sinister secrets. The Intensive Treatment facility itself was dreadful and constantly shrouded in darkness, despite that fact that the island's most notorious patients resided within its walls. It was eerily silent at all times, unless a particularly rowdy patient was making his or her way through Secure Transit. If she ever walked through the corridors at night, which she found herself doing increasingly often, she never knew if she would run into a guard or a ghost.

"So why didn't you make the Olympics?" Bruce turned to her.

"Excuse me?" she blinked at him.

"Did you qualify? At Trials?" he pressed. She stared at him for a moment before muttering,

"No."

"Why not?" he gazed at her intently.

"I tore my ACL," she sighed.

"_At_ Trials?" he blinked in shock and she nodded silently.

"Ouch," he frowned and paused.

"So did your athletic career end there?"

"Yes," she said quietly. They had stopped walking, for they had reached the massive elevator at the mouth of the Secure Transit section of the facility.

"I'm sorry. Well, look at this way, you have another one that's just beginning!" he smiled warmly.

She scanned her staff ID and pressed the elevator button before turning around to gaze at him intently.

"Do you love what you do, Mr. Wayne?" she asked sincerely.

An inkling of surprise flashed across his face before he recomposed himself.

"Well… sure, I suppose you could say that," he laughed. "If you really think that running a corporation is something to love."

She continued to gaze at him before he retracted,

"No, I'm just joking. Of course I do! And I'm sure that you love what you do as well, Dr. Quinzel."

She stared at him for a moment with glazed, vacant eyes, like she wasn't even really there. Yet at the _ding_ of the arriving elevator, she snapped out of her daze and cracked a smile.

"This is a highly restricted area, so I'm afraid you won't be able to accompany me any further. Though it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Wayne," she chirruped before hastily clambering into the elevator.

As the doors shut in his face, she began to tremble. She rode it for six flights before exiting into a dimly lit corridor.

Once she entered her office, she slammed the door behind her and immediately exhaled. She approached her desk and plopped her files down before gripping the edges to support herself. After a moment, she glanced up at the white walls and immediately felt suffocated. Except for her framed medical degree, they were entirely devoid of adornment. The banality was almost maddening, and save for the bolted brown chaise and her meticulously organized desk, it was the only thing in the room. No color. No warmth. No character. It was an emotionless, sterile room, not to mention the fact that it was entirely soundproof. She could start screaming and nobody would hear her, though it was the silence that was lethal.

The mind can do incredible things to itself when purged in silence for too long.

A petite clock ticked away on her desk; the only noise other than her heartbeat.

She lowered herself slowly into her chair and glanced at the first drawer to her chestnut desk. After a moment of hesitation, she unlocked it and pulled out a framed photograph.

Staring back at her was the nineteen-year old version of herself, grinning from ear to ear. She was radiant and glowing far brighter than the glittery, flamboyant makeup that caked her face. It was so cheesy, but on that day she had managed to transcend the gaudiness of the excessive gymnast maquillage. A black and yellow leotard hugged her toned body, for she, alongside the Gotham University Division I Gymnastics Team, had just become a national champion. Further, indicated on the trophy that she was proudly wielding, she had been crowned the national balance beam champion.

She lowered the photograph back into the drawer and absentmindedly ran a finger over her right knee. Her black stockings concealed the two-inch surgical scar carved just below her kneecap. It was a garish result of reconstructive ligament surgery, after which she struggled through half a year of extensive physical rehabilitation. She could eventually walk again, but her scar tissue served as a permanent reminder that she could no longer own a room with a routine. Further, it had shattered her confidence, prompting her to hide behind stockings and pants.

A knock on the door caused her to immediately close the drawer shut.

"Heads up, Doc," Frank announced through the door.

She nervously smoothed back her bun and adjusted the collar of her grey turtleneck. A moment later, her restrained patient entered, flanked by three Arkham security guards. They pushed him down onto the chaise and proceeded to leave.

"I'll see you later, boys!" the Joker called out to them, at which they shook their heads in disgust and shut the door.

Sealed into the gladiator pit once more, predator and prey locked eyes. Some color had returned to his pallid face and the infection appeared to stop spreading. The swollen scar tissue on his face was still cause for concern, but the antibiotic appeared to be doing its job, albeit quite slowly.

"How are you feeling today?" she smiled politely.

He blinked vacantly at her, deliberately ignoring her question. At the end of their last session, he had refused to speak for the last fifteen minutes.

"You appear to be taking your medication," she noted with a nod, "you're looking a bit better."

He didn't respond. A painful silence followed and all she could hear was her own heartbeat in her ears. It thudded inside her skull and she swallowed down the dry lump in her throat.

"Have you been eating?" she attempted again.

The question fell flat into the vat of silence that was her office and she inhaled shakily. She could hear the _tick_, _tick_, _tick_ing of the clock and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to smash it against the wall.

"So you're ignoring me then?" she pursed her lips in frustration.

He blinked languidly at her before shifting his gaze to the ceiling. He sighed in exasperation and she gritted her teeth. They sat in wretched silence for several more minutes, until she began screaming inside her own head. Just as she thought she was about to hurl the clock against the ground, it suddenly dawned on her that these were not topics he was interested in talking about. She had to appeal to him in language that he understood. Not only understood, but was beyond fluent in.

She sat up straighter and took a deep, calming breath.

"So, correct me if I'm wrong…" she began shakily, "but according to chaos theory, chaotic behavior alters conditions such that the outcome of said conditions, despite the fact that they are deterministic in nature, is entirely unpredictable. Essentially chaos, or lack of order, works against a system that inherently obeys a set of rules or laws, yes?"

His dark eyes shifted to hers and she confidently picked up a thick file from her desk.

"For instance," she continued, "if I just plop this down onto the floor, it would most likely just drop and stay in tact, thanks to gravity and its mass. Of course, gravitational physics is extremely disciplined and full of rules."

She plopped the file back down onto her desk and it resounded with a _smack_.

"But what if I_ swept_ it off of my desk? Could you tell me where each piece of paper will land? Depending on the initial force of the push, this would affect the projectile speed and final location of each and every piece of paper, right? Then is that so calculable?"

She flung the folder off her desk and pieces of paper exploded everywhere, fluttering about the air. He began laughing hysterically as the contents of his own file began raining down on him.

"And now, once you leave, I'm going to have to spend five minutes cleaning this up. Now did I do it because I felt like it, or because I'm undermining my duty to uphold a sense of professionalism and thus defying authority?"

"You did it to prove a point," he smirked.

"Is that why you blew up a hospital?"

"Is it?" he raised a brow.

"I think so," she nodded, "you wanted Coleman Reese dead and you called up the people of Gotham to do the deed. The hospital was… collateral, in case they didn't. You wanted to send a message."

"I think I did a pretty damn fine job of that," his scars stretched in a pleased grin.

"Yes. Yes, you did. But how is that chaotic? That was clearly premeditated. You had to plant the bombs and organize a bloodthirsty mob in order to do your bidding. That's very calculated if you ask me," she shrugged and leaned back in her chair.

"You're right," he leaned forward, nodding.

"That initial step required some organization. Bu_**t**_… when I made that phone call, what happened? Hmm? There was no predicting what would happen. Would Coleman Reese die? Would he not? Would a cop turn against his own badge to save his wife? Would Johnny shoot Jimmy because he was blocking the door to the GCN headquarters? What ensued was… chaos. You see… there is a thin line between… being civilized and _uncivilized_. People… will do… terrible things to other people if they believe… that… their world is collapsing around them… Now you see, the world of chaos is unpredictable. Unforgiving. Untamed. Much like madness, it just requires a little… _push_."

He giggled to himself and a greasy lock of hair fell into his eyes.

"Do you consider yourself to be mad?" she gazed at him expectantly.

"That's an interesting… question," he mused.

She waited for him to continue.

"Yes… and… no. Now, do you remember what I said about having one bad day?"

"That it's… the difference between you and the rest of humanity," she offered.

"And what if I told you that it is also the difference between sanity and insanity?" he grinned darkly.

"Is it?"

"Think about it. Think about how… simple… it is. So you have one… bad… day. Where do you go? Who do you turn to? Hmm? Ah, but madness… madness is the emergency exit. All you have to do… is walk out the door… and you'll never have to deal with your problems again. There is no… looking… back."

"Are you saying that you appreciate madness?" she leaned forward to stare at him with large, perplexed eyes.

"Madness… has done a lot for me. It is a dear friend of mine. It has opened my eyes to this black joke of a world. It has separated truth from lie, deception from reality. It, of course, introduced me to the concept of chaos. The utmost truth. But you… people… are the ones living in blind ignorance. You live behind a shade of… rules and… laws… and you're missing the poin_**t**_. So instead, you label me as… _crazy_… when the reality is that… I am so insane that I am saner than all of you."

She jotted:  
_sane? super (in)sanity?_

"So you acknowledge that you are not of a sound mind?" she glanced up at him.

He laughed freely before shaking his head violently to and fro.

"My mind is sharper than anyone else's. Madness doesn't take you out of the game, sweetcheeks… it puts you ahead of the curve."

"And did you ever consider your own safety or wellbeing while you were... _broadcasting_ your messages?"

"Why would I?" he narrowed his eyes.

"Because you could have died at any given time. If you were around when a faulty bomb went off, if the mob had taken you out, if the cops did, and so on," she gestured with her pencil.

"So."

"So?" she raised her eyebrows.

"So be it then," he shrugged his confined shoulders. "All that matters in this world and all that is true is chaos. If I die, chaos will live on. There is not point to this life other than understanding and distributing that truth."

"Well isn't that kind of nihilistic then?"

"Again with the Nietzsche bullshit?" he snapped.

"You have a very interesting political philosophy is all. I don't think there's any way to pigeonhole it," she sighed. There was a pause before she knitted her eyebrows in revelatory thought; something he had noticed.

"Wha_**t**_?" he prodded.

"What if… you kept a journal?" she met his curious gaze. It immediately turned into one of mockery and he began cackling and stomping his feet on the ground in hysterical amusement.

"And write my feelings down? Day one… Everything sucks. Mom and Dad don't understand me," he hooted in a childish voice.

"No," she sighed, "so you can write your thoughts down. Anything that comes to mind. You can doodle… whatever you want. I think it might be good for you. You're clearly a man of many thoughts."

He stopped laughing and narrowed his eyes.

"You _really_ want to give a guy like me a pencil?"

"I… trust you to behave yourself," she said quietly.

"Naughty, naughty, Harl. The guards would never allow this," his scarred smile stretched across his face. She hesitated before assuaging,

"It can be our little secret. As long as I get to read some of your entries."

The rest of their session had ended without incident. Additionally, before she had left her office for the night, she had asked the guard posted outside her patient's cell for a moment of privacy. He shrugged apathetically and lumbered off, at which point she quietly rapped on the steel door.

After a moment, his scarred, weary face appeared before her through his small, sealed window.

"Hi," she greeted softly.

"I knew it was you," he sneered, "with a sad little knock like that."

She blinked several times before shaking off the jab.

"I brought you this," she whispered and pulled a small black notebook from her coat.

After a moment of hesitation, she crouched down and carefully lifted the tiny steel flap where his food and pills got chucked under the door. She nervously held it out to him and he snatched it from her hand.

"Do I get a writing utensil or am I supposed to get creative?" he grinned darkly. She fished around in her black trench coat and eventually brandished a pencil.

"Please don't do anything stupid with this," she begged and held it out to him.

He curled his fingers around it, brushing her own, before he yanked it from her. She fearfully stood up and found herself face-to-face with him once more, albeit the fact that a three-inch thick steel door stood between the two.

"No promises," he shrugged.

"Please – "

"Na na na na na na," he teased childishly and waved it in her face. She stared at him disbelievingly before biting back a smile.

"I have a question for you," she announced abruptly and he stopped his banter to scowl at her.

"When do you no_**t**_…" he muttered.

She timidly glanced down at the ground before raising her eyes to his.

"Are you happy?" she asked softly.

"Would you be happy if you had to live in this shithole?" he retorted, gesturing into his dim cell.

"No," she shook her head. "I mean… Are you happy with this life you chose?"

"Are you asking me because _you're_ unhappy with _your_ life?" he rebuked. They stared at one another for a moment before she bit her bottom lip uneasily.

"No… I… I genuinely want to know."

His scarred mouth curled into a sneer before he derided, "how could I no_**t**_ be?"

She knew she wasn't going to get a direct answer. For as long as she'd known him, she knew that if he hated anything more than everything, it was admitting to something. So she nodded with a sad smile and turned to leave.

"So why is i_**t**_… that I was expecting the confident Harley from earlier, but instead… the little lamb shows up to my door?" he called out to her.

She turned to him with an inexplicable expression in her eyes. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. What followed instead was a thick, impenetrable silence. At this, she spun around and began to walk off.

"Do I get a goodnight kiss?" he interjected with an impish grin.

She stopped walking to look over her shoulder at him, and his scarred smile grew as he noted the rosy blush creeping into her cheeks.

"You're hilarious," she quipped, before turning to walk down the corridor.

He could smell her cheap perfume lingering long after she'd left. It irritated him. So to distract himself, he plopped down on his cot and flipped the notebook open. He steadied the pencil in his left hand and began scratching out a crude stick figure, accompanied by pointy black ears and a cape. Above it, he stenciled in near-indecipherable letters:

_The Dork Knight_

He drew a second figure to the right of the first and added a large smile. Above that he penciled:

_Me_

He continued his sketch by adding a large smile to his first figure. He pressed down hard on the paper, tracing and retracing the grin until the paper tore. He carved it out, using the pencil tip, until his creation had a gaping hole for a mouth. Once he was satisfied, he drew a third figure to the left of the grinning Batman. He scrawled:

_The Boy Blunder_

He too carved a smiled into the sidekick's face before scribbling out both of their heads in mass squiggles of grey. He paused and assessed his work before frowning. It wasn't complete.

He absentmindedly picked at his scars in deep thought. What was missing?

It suddenly dawned on him and the pencil was immediately scratching out a fourth stick figure directly to the right of his. Yet instead of pointy black ears, he drew two pigtails. Above that:

_Harley Quinzel_

He frowned and erased the last three letters before reassessing it.

Still not complete.

After a moment, he scribbled a second "_n_" and a massive grin engulfed his face. He slowly lifted up his completed masterpiece and began cackling manically.

He knew insomuch that art existed to imitate life, but he now intended for life to imitate art. He was fully aware of his illustrious ability to orchestrate masterful episodes of chaos, so why could he not channel his genius into a different medium? This would take a considerable amount of time to complete - most likely several more months of festering in this nightmare - but he could do it. He would do it. Most artists martyrized themselves for their work, and he was willing to do the same. This would be his ultimate creation. His _chef-d'oeuvre_.

His Harley Quinn.

* * *

_Since the two weeks that Harley and Jack had met, a shaky friendship had developed between the two. She hardly ever saw him in school, simply because he cut the majority of his classes, but they routinely spent time together otherwise. She quickly discovered that he was much smarter than he intended to appear, yet she couldn't decide if he spent all his time at home reading academic dissertations or if he was just born a goddamn genius. Though none of that really mattered, because according to the system, he was failing out of school._

_Conversely, Harley spent much of her time trying to stay afloat in school. When she wasn't working or running around with her new acquaintance, she was struggling her way through endless chapters and classes of what she construed to be impenetrable nonsense. Occasionally, if she became frustrated enough, she'd abandon her schoolwork altogether and take up an offer to go swig a bottle in the park._

_On a chilly mid-September night, they had done just that. The two sat atop a splintered picnic table, passing a brown-bagged bottle of whiskey back and forth. They were both bundled inside dark hoodies to combat the frigid Gotham chill, though they were steadily increasing the efficacy of their respective liquor jackets. They talked about everything and nothing at the same time, but mostly they just sat in silence._

"_I'm cold," she suddenly complained. _

_He turned to her, and underneath the wash of a flickering streetlamp, she could make out the fading, yellowed bruise that had claimed the left side of his face for the past two weeks. His split lip had healed almost entirely, though he licked it, perhaps out of habit._

"_And?" he asked apathetically._

"_I need to stretch," she announced before hopping up from the table. She bent over to touch her toes and her curved back extended further until she had flattened her palms against the ground._

"_You're flexible," he noted nonchalantly before taking a swig._

"_Yeah I can do a split," she muffled through her curtain of hair before springing upright again._

"_Show me then," he demanded. _

"_I'll probably be rusty, I haven't done this in awhile," she admitted. _

_She hoisted her pants up and positioned her feet widely apart. He watched as she slowly began to sink her upright torso to the ground, legs spreading further, until she had reached a full split. _

"_Ta da!" she exclaimed with a fat grin. He smirked._

"_Nice."_

"_I can do other stuff too," she boasted and picked herself up from the ground._

"_Like?"_

_She pondered for a moment and her eyes scanned the park. They stopped at the park's jungle gym, and more specifically, a balance beam structure clearly meant for small children to crawl across. She wordlessly walked toward the structure as he watched on from the picnic table. Once she reached the beam, she smoothed her hands over the surface and took a deep breath before fluidly lifting herself up onto it. She looked over to where he was sitting, the faintest smile dancing at her lips, before she began her routine. _

_He watched her twirl through a triple back flip, her petite body tucked neatly into place. She was lithe yet controlled, contorting her body in ways that most humans were incapable of doing. After, she jumped several feet to complete a nearly perfect mid-air split. Yet she wobbled with her landing, which duly prompted a tipsy giggle to escape her lips. To compensate, she flipped forward just from standing and landed rigidly, her hands held up proudly in the air. She basked in the attention and he knew it. Yet he indulged her with every moment his dark eyes carefully watched her supple back arch and straighten. _

"_Who are you putting on a show for?" he called out to her. She paused and turned her head to look at him._

"_I don't know," she shrugged with a coy smile. "You, I guess."_

_At that, she finished off her performance with an impressive dismount, complete with fluid flips and twists and spins that made his head swim. Her landing was not as graceful, as she teetered once her feet planted and fell onto her side._

"_Whoops," she laughed, "I guess I'm a little drunk."_

_She brushed herself off and hopped over to join her lone spectator on the picnic table. He turned to her, eyebrows raised in disbelief._

"_I was a pretty serious gymnast like two years ago," she answered his silent question with a pleased grin._

"_What happened?" he asked calmly._

"_You know… Life. It's been kind of crazy the past two years," she replied vacantly._

_He didn't respond, which she had learned that meant he was listening. She glanced at the ground timidly and then raised her head to smile at him. _

"_I… I was thinking about trying out for the team here, but I'm not in shape," she admitted sheepishly. "I just figured if I did well, I could get a scholarship or something."_

"_You want to go to college?" he snapped bitterly._

"_You don't?" she furrowed her brow._

"_Why would I?" he scoffed._

"_I don't know…. So you could become something."_

"_Become… something," he muttered cynically. "Now tell me... What would I become? Let's see, according to society's standards, I'm supposed to pay almost a quarter-million dollars in order to receive a quote… sufficient education… such that I can become a corporate drone. Something white-collar, of course, because as long as I'm wielding a diploma in each hand, how could I earn anything below six-figures? But this is just the beginning, for every single day until I'm in my mid-sixties, I commute to work. I join the thousands of others in transit, the thousands of other people who shuffle through the subway or the toll bridges, muttering under their breaths about their grievances for the day. I sit on the train and stare at the same advertisement for dental cosmetology until I have to switch cars, because I don't want the same fucking stock photo staring at me for the rest of my life. Now, I endure this forty-hour-a-week cycle until I eventually meet a pretty girl. Maybe it was at the local watering hole where others like me go to in order to publicly lament about bills and bosses and love. So I meet this girl, and we hit it off, and I ultimately think I love her, so I ask her to marry me. That's all great until I realize after two years that she's a bitch, so every time we have sex I pretend she's someone else. That is, until I do go and have sex with someone else. Maybe my secretary. Maybe a hooker. But then I eventually avoid going home altogether because I can no longer stand to hear her voice in my ear. We fight about everything, but mostly money, because isn't that what everything boils down to in the end? Now, she'll get pregnant, and I'm forced to play Daddy for some kid who didn't even ask to get born into this world, until I eventually kill myself or accidentally overdose in some escapist bender."_

_She stared at him for a long moment before sighing,_

"_You make it sound so shitty."_

"_That's because it is. The saddest creature to ever have been placed on this wretched Earth is the common man," he sneered._

"_But you're not common. You… you would just never blend in to the crowd," she paused. "You're so smart that you could find the cure for cancer or build a rocket ship or something like that. People would know who you are for what you did."_

"_I don't need a diploma to do that, kid," he eyed her wearily._

"_What are you going to do then?"_

"_Whatever I want," he muttered before pulling from the bottle._

_She wasn't sure how to respond, so she didn't. They sat in tense silence for a moment before he finally turned to her, lips curled into a smirk._

"_What about you, Harley girl? Hmm? What are you going to be?" he mocked._

"_I don't really know. I think I wanted to help people," she responded emptily._

"_Help people?" he snorted, "you can hardly help yourself."_

"_But then what's the alternative?" she turned to him suddenly. "I work at the Lounge forever, possibly meet a charming mobster one night, get knocked up, have a shotgun wedding and get slapped around until I'm dead? We just… I just have to break this cycle. I can't keep living this way. Misery is comfortable."_

"_Are you miserable?"_

"_Are you not?" she retorted. _

"_Look," she sighed, continuing, "I never said I was going to college. I can't even go without a scholarship, anyway. I literally can't afford it. All I'm saying is that I'd like to try out for the team, in the here and now, because that's what I think I want to do. Do you have a problem with that?"_

"_Whatever," he sniffed, rolling his eyes._

"_What makes you happy, Jack?" she asked, leaning toward him. _

_He stared down into the bottle before shrugging apathetically._

"_Well can you tell me when you figure it out?" she gazed at him expectantly._

_He lifted his head to look at her for a long moment before glancing back at the bottle. He suddenly held it out to her and she wordlessly accepted it. They were beginning to forge their own unique language, one that employed silence as often as words. _

"_Do you want to come over?" she asked abruptly._

"_What?" he raised an eyebrow._

"_Screw this. It's cold. I'm cold. I'm sad. I'm hungry. Let's get out of here."_

_Twenty minutes later, Harley was fishing her apartment keys out of her black jacket. Jack leaned against the elevator frame and glanced around at her apartment lobby. It was small, with a single beaten loveseat situated oddly beneath the commercial mailboxes, on top of which a wilting sunflower drooped in its metallic vase. It smelled like vomit._

"_Charming," he noted. _

_She smiled just as the elevator arrived and they rode it to the fourth floor in silence. They exited, took a left, and stopped in front of a black door labeled _4B_. Harley fiddled with the lock for a moment before swinging the heavy door open. _

"_And here we are," she beamed at him before hopping inside. _

_He sauntered past the doorway and drank in their surroundings. They were standing in a fairly cramped living room, complete with a sofa, coffee table and television all situated against the left wall. A kitchenette was nestled into the far wall and three black doors were carved into wall on the right._

"_My room," Harley pointed at the door to the farthest left._

"_Bathroom," she pointed at the middle door._

"_Mom's room," she finally pointed at the farthest right door. _

_She bounded over to the TV and turned it on, filling the intimate space with a warm humming noise. She manually flipped through the channels and finally stopped at a rerun of _Freaks and Geeks_. _

"_This ok?" she glanced back at him. _

_He nodded and ambled toward the sofa, eventually plopping down and propping his feet up onto the cluttered coffee table. He set the brown-bagged bottle next to various other empty beer bottles, an ashtray and several copies of stained newspapers. She joined him, though on the complete opposite side of the couch._

_They silently watched half an episode without interruption until they both heard a feeble voice call out,_

"_Harley?"_

_Together, they turned to find a petite woman shuffling out the darkness of the far right door. She was clad in a red bathrobe and matching slippers, and as she scuffled further into the light, her cerulean eyes blinked several times in discomfort. Disheveled mahogany hair framed a round face, Harley's face, and she nervously began fingering the delicate Star of David pendant hanging from her frail neck. _

"_Yes, Mom?" _

_Her daughter leapt up from the couch and was immediately at her side. The two were the same height; nearly carbon copies of one another, save for the striking difference in hair color. _

"_What time is it?" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes._

"_It's almost one in the morning, Mom," Harley responded tenderly._

"_One?" she exclaimed weakly, "I've been sleeping since four…"_

"_That's okay," her daughter assuaged. _

"_Who's that?" she whispered fearfully, peering at the stranger on her couch._

"_It's okay, Mom. He's my friend from school. Would you like to meet him?"_

"_Oh! Oh… Yes I would," she exhaled in relief. Harley led her mother around the couch and placed her hands softly on her shoulders. _

"_Mom, this is my friend, Jack. Jack, this is my Mom."_

"_Hi sweetheart, I'm Frances," she smiled sweetly. Jack immediately sprung up from the couch and offered his hand._

"_Hello ma'am. It's a pleasure to meet you," he smiled cordially with perfect, glinting teeth. _

_While his face was normally twisted into a perpetual scowl or facetious grin, it had transformed into something boyish and – dare she say? - attractive. Harley blinked at him dubiously while her mother shook his hand._

"_Oh, he's adorable," she proclaimed to no one in particular. She hadn't commented on Jack's yellow-green facial bruise, and Harley wondered if she had even noticed it. _

"_What are you two watching?" she turned to glance at the TV. _

"Freaks and Geeks_."_

_She nodded vacuously before sitting down next to Jack and he immediately assembled himself into a proper sitting position. Harley joined her on the opposite side and the three watched the show together for several minutes._

"_Who's that character?" her mother pointed to the screen after a moment._

"_Kim," Harley replied._

"_And that boy?"_

_She hesitated before murmuring, "Daniel."_

"_Daniel," her mother smiled languorously and closed her sleepy eyes. Yet they instantly snapped open and she began swiveling her head around. _

"_Where is he? Danny? Are you here?" she asked frantically._

"_Mom – "_

"_Danny? Hello?" she squeaked._

"_Mom. Danny isn't here anymore…" _

"_What do you mean? Where is my husband?" she shrilled in mounting hysteria._

"_I think you mean Roger, Mom," Harley coaxed._

"_Roger?" she paused to stare at her daughter. "Who's that? Where is your father?"_

"_Roger is your husband," she countered gently. _

"_Harleen Frances," she snapped, "don't you dare disrespect your father like that. He's out protecting our country and – "_

"_Mom - " _

"_He has done everything for us so you better show him some respect, young la –"_

"Mom!_" she shouted with large eyes. Her mother froze and stared at her. _

"_Mom," she repeated gently, "you mean Roger."_

"_Who?" she asked with a puzzled expression. _

"_Roger. Your husband," Harley besought. Suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped, her mother's face crumbled._

"_Oh… that's right," she responded blankly. _

"_I think it's time for bed now, Mommy," she whispered cajolingly before rising from the sofa and extending her hands out._

"_But I don't want to go to bed," she pouted and crossed her arms._

"_Please –"_

"_Mrs. Quinzel," Jack interrupted and rose as well. "Please forgive us for waking you, but it's quite late out. I should be leaving soon, but it would comfort me to know that you've returned to bed without incident. Allow me."_

_He held out his hand to her and she blinked up at him with despondent, frightened eyes. Slowly, she placed her delicate hand in his and he helped her clamber off the sofa. _

"_Thanks, sweetie," she smiled at him distantly. _

_Harley disbelievingly watched the two disappear into the darkness of her mother's bedroom. Several moments later, he emerged from the behind the door and made his way back to the sofa. He stood over it, peering down at the perplexed blonde. _

"_What was that?" she turned to him. _

"_What was _that_?" he pointed toward the bedroom door. She blinked at him before pulling her knees to her chest. _

"_My mom," she finally sighed. _

"_What the hell is she on?" he arched a brow. _

"_Everything," she muttered. There was a tense pause before he narrowed his eyes._

"_So I take it that Roger isn't your dad," he issued darkly. _

"_No," she shook her head. "My dad died when I was thirteen."_

_She hesitated in contemplation before closing her eyes._

"_Sometimes my mom… sometimes she forgets that. It's like her brain is disconnected. Or broken. It doesn't know what's real and what's not anymore… So she lives in her own world, hoping and pretending that he's still deployed. That he'll come home soon. And then… she wakes up."_

_He absentmindedly sat down next to her and scratched at his knee._

"_Living the dream, huh?" she glanced up at him with watery eyes. He avoided her gaze and instead, stared down into the ground. She turned away from him and brushed at the hot tears clinging to her lids._

"_What makes_ you_ happy?" he finally turned to her. She glanced at him, slightly startled, before staring out into her living room._

"_This sounds strange but… gymnastics," she said blankly. "It's like everything else around me is so unpredictable and I… I never know what to do. But when I see a balance beam or a vault, it just clicks for me. For the first time, I know what I'm doing. And then I'm not so… lost. I'm shitty at a lot of things, Jack. But I can do that. I can do that and most people can't. And that makes me feel okay."_

"_Then you should try out for the team," he said quietly. _

_She turned to him with a stunned expression._

"_What?" he squinted at her, annoyed._

_Her shock quickly melted into a warm smile and in a flash, she craned up to kiss him on the cheek. He reeled backward, startled, and rubbed at his skin._

"_What was that for?" he asked incredulously. _

"_I don't know," she shrugged. "Thanks for being my friend, I guess."_

* * *

Enjoy. Thanks for reading!


	4. Poster of a Girl

Normal font = present day, italics = past (10 years ago)

DC owns everything.

* * *

Can't stand by myself / Hate to sleep alone  
Surprises always help / So I take somebody home  
To find out how I feel / Feel like just a baby  
Portrait of a lady / Poster of a girl  
- _Poster of a Girl_, Metric

"Harleen," Dr. Akrham smiled plainly.

He gestured at the chair situated from across his desk and she obligingly sat down. His steaming cup of Monday morning coffee taunted her fatigued brain, similar to that of the patronizing smirk on his face.

"Welcome," he nodded, clasping his bony fingers together.

She returned a curt, polite smile before idly smoothing out her black skirt.

"So… Tell me. How are things?" he stared at her expectantly.

She blinked at him with drained, apathetic eyes.

"They're fine," she issued monotonously.

"Let's see," he muttered, flipping through a clipboard. "You have had… three sessions with your patient thus far, correct?"

"That is correct," she nodded tersely.

"Three sessions. Three hours. One week. What's happened?" he glanced up at her pointedly.

It was difficult for her to imagine that she'd only had three sessions with her patient, as he had managed to consume every conscious and unconscious moment of her life. The tri-weekly sessions themselves were exhausting, but so was the laughter that plagued both her nightmares and sleep-deprived thoughts.

"Well this happened on the first day," she scowled dryly, pointing at her swathed neck.

"Yes but what _else_? What have you learned from him?" he snapped impatiently.

She paused to glance heavily at the dark carpeting of her superior's office.

"He's intelligent," she murmured after a moment.

He narrowed his eyes at her and leaned forward against his mahogany desk.

"What drives him? What's his motif?" he pressed.

"Chaos," she said simply.

"What?"

She sighed and lifted her gaze to meet his.

"He… holds onto a very unique political philosophy. It appears to drive him. He even holds it above himself," she murmured.

"But _why_?" he demanded and she merely shrugged.

"I don't really know… _why_… though, he admits that a bad day drove him over the edge. Yet it's more of a… super sanity."

"What does that mean?" he jeered.

"He's so insane that he's saner than all of us."

There was a brief pause before he erupted into laughter. It was a haughty, vibratory laugh - one that belonged to pompous and corrupt asylum wardens. It was a hideous, perverted sound and she absolutely hated it. Her ears began ringing and she immediately started grinding her teeth in irritation. He choked out a couple of hoots before snorting,

"Well do you think he's able to stand trial?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"And do you think he should plead insanity in court?" he probed.

She exhaled heavily and closed her weary eyes.

"I'm not sure yet," she sighed.

"Do you even realize how close his court date is?" he snapped.

"Do you, Harleen? It's two months away. And here's the deal… I need him in here. He _can't _go to Blackgate. First off, they'd put him straight on death row. And then what use is he then? You'd just have a fried, useless _freak_ in a chair. But that's beside the point. He needs to be _here_. I need him here. I need him cured. And frankly, Harleen, I don't think you can hold your own in a session with him, let alone a courtroom."

"Dr. Arkham, I – "

"Do you know a name? Family history? Anything?" he demanded.

She stared at him for a long moment, utterly gripped by paralysis. There were a variety of answers that she could have provided her boss with, but for some reason unbeknownst to the conscious workings of her mind, the word that slipped from her lips was,

"No."

He visibly bubbled with rage and suddenly exploded.

"Christ, you're useless," he snarled, "just… you know what? Just get the hell out of my office."

She rose without a word and mutedly made her way toward the door. She gripped the doorknob and paused before turning to look at him over her shoulder.

"I'm not useless, _Jerry_," she sneered before slamming the door shut.

Her heels clacked frenziedly against the metal flooring as she rushed through the corridors, and several minutes later she had slammed the door to her own office. She immediately zipped toward her desk and pulled out her notepad and pencil.

She quickly drew a stick figure labeled "Jeremiah Arkham" and began scribbling out his face. She scribbled so hard that the tip of her pencil broke off, but not before she had completed an amorphous black hole of a drawing. She glanced at the incensed scribble and sighed in therapeutic relief. After several deep breaths, she ripped out the drawing from her pad, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the first drawer of her desk. Next, she nestled calmly into her usual seat and adjusted the gauzy red scarf enveloping her mangled neck. Bruises tended to worsen before they faded, and her neck was speckled with a brilliant array of yellows, blues, purples and greens. As she struggled to disguise the polychromatic splotches with one hand, the other absentmindedly brushed along the rough scar carved into her right kneecap.

A rap at the door snapped her hands back onto her desk, and the Joker, alongside his three usual escorts, entered. She exchanged polite waves with the three armored guards before they departed, and once they shut her door, she turned to greet her patient.

"Hello," she smiled warmly.

"Hel_lo_ there," he drawled.

She sat up straighter and her sincere grin transformed into that of exaltation; he had acknowledged her. Not only had he acknowledged her, but a faint smile also danced along his dry, chapped lips.

She consciously patted her meticulously wound bun.

"How are you feeling today?" she probed.

"Fine," he issued a close-lipped smile.

She nodded receptively, poising her broken pencil atop her small notepad.

"What do you want to talk about today?" she chirped merrily.

He smirked coyly before purring,

"Let's talk about you."

Her smile immediately fell and she squirmed underneath his expectant gaze.

"I don't think – "

"Why… don't we… talk about the _lovely_ Harleen Quinzel for a change?" he asked in a voice laced with venomous saccharine.

He blinked at her with lucid brown eyes, underneath which his brows were raised in boyish curiosity. She also couldn't help but notice that the green dye was beginning to fade from his greasy curls and his natural shade of sandy blonde peaked out from the roots of his untidy hair. A curl fell innocently onto his creased brow and she bit her lip out of an unwarranted amalgamation of nostalgia and hesitation.

"So… tell… me," he continued smoothly, "what have you been up to? How did your gymnastic career turn out?"

"I won a national championship," she offered feebly.

"Did you?" his eyebrows shot up higher.

"And I went to the Olympic Trials," she continued bashfully.

"Olympic," he mouthed.

She blushed slightly before bobbing her head in a single, earnest nod.

"And then what?" he leaned his head sharply to one side.

He peered up at her from a peculiar angle before tapping his foot.

"You didn't make the big leagues, clearly. What happened?"

She blinked several times before averting her gaze from his.

"I… I, um… Well, I -"

"Spit it out," he commanded.

"I tore my ACL," she confessed softly.

"That's a pretty nasty spill," his dark eyes grew large. Though not a moment later did his disfigured mouth curl into an ominous smirk.

"Now… how does one… repair a torn ACL?" he cooed.

"R-reconstructive surgery," she squeaked.

"_Aha_… sur…gery…" he mused aloud. There was a thick pause before he purred,

"So then you must have a _scar_."

"Y-yes."

"Where is it?" his grin grew.

"My… my right knee," she faltered.

"Show me," he suddenly demanded.

She blinked at him dubiously before shaking her head.

"No."

"Harley…" he reproved in a low growl.

"That's inappro –"

"Show me," he snarled.

"No!" she snapped.

He watched a flicker of rage flash through her eyes before it quickly receded. What remained was her still demeanor and she continued calmly,

"No. You don't deserve that. You don't deserve to see my scar."

"Oh, so it's _dignified_?" he roared amusedly. "I have to_ deserve_ it?"

"Tell me," he sneered, "do you deserve to see mine?"

"I think so," she nodded.

"Why?" he thundered. "Why _do_ you? You… of all… people. The most pathetic… sapless… one of them all. What makes _you_ worthy?

"How can I _not _see them?" she refuted.

"Because it's _all_ you see now. You look at… me… and all you see are these scars. And I look at… you… and all I see is… yours. So tell me, Harley. Tell… me. What happens when you run out of stockings to wear? What then?

"Because that's all you are now. And I won't be like you," she said quietly.

"Oh but you already are," he giggled enigmatically.

"That is absolutely not true," she hissed.

He merely smirked before lolling his head back and forth.

"So… did you… _love_ it when you were a gymnast?" he asked casually, mid-loll.

"All those eyes watching your every move…" he continued languidly.

"Each and every one, fixated on every… single… movement. Watching you for any sign of imperfection. Was a strand of hair out of place? Did you land a centimeter off balance? How did you fare against physical properties such as gravity and inertia? And metaphysical ones… such as fate? Or… luck? Mmm… everyone was watching you. The whole city… engrossed in their darling Harleen... The Olympic hopeful. _Har_…leeeeeen… the radiant beacon of light… one of the few… to rise from the darkness of Gotham. A flamboyant, swaggering phoenix. Or were you a peacock? Ah, but you _were_ a peacock… because you loved it, didn't you? You drank up all of that attention. Lapped up every… last… drop… I can just imagine you sauntering up to the balance beam with that sly little smirk of yours. You knew they were watching and you knew what you were doing… after all those… hours of sweat… blood… tears… all of those hours aimed at attaining… _perfection._"

He paused before continuing, "But… what _now_? No one is watching you now, Harley girl. And you are no_**t**_… perfect. You're a broken little ragdoll with a damaged, ineffective leg. And tell me, how does that make you feel?"

Her cheeks flushed red, though she retained her composure.

"I believe _you're_ the one who loves attention," she rebuked. "All of those videos you made of yourself? Not to mention the outrageous suit. How much did that cost to tailor? Mister Joker, it would appear that you have an unchecked narcissism complex."

"What guy doesn't love seeing his own handsome mug on the tube?" he grinned.

"I'm just a _dream_," he continued glibly, "just take a look at my face. Doesn't it have youthful charm written all over it? And I hear that the ladies _love_ a decent smile."

He was laughing to himself now, bouncing up and down on the chaise.

"Oh yeah, I'm sure women love you," she muttered.

"Do you _really_ want to know about that?" he snapped to attention.

His brows were raised in feigned astonishment and his proverbial Glasgow grin grew.

"Geeze, Harl. I'm a gentleman. I never kiss and tell," he shook his head.

A series of obscene, chilling images slammed through her head and she immediately felt queasy. Her quickened heartbeat thudded loudly in her ears and the banality of her office was suddenly asphyxiating. She inhaled shakily and attempted to block out the overwhelming presence of her dull surroundings.

"Are you sexually active?" she managed feebly.

"Are you?" he retorted. "Because it _really_ seems like it's been awhile since you've been laid, toots."

"This isn't about me," she attempted.

"Though I wonder how many one night stands you had in college," he continued, "I'm sure you spent all of your Sunday mornings crying and hating yourself."

"And I wonder how much sex you had to pay for," she snapped.

He hooted in resumed laughter and began stomping his feet against the ground.

"You know, I think we're meant for the ages," he declared, "like Bogie and Bacall."

"Try Sid and Nancy," she muttered.

"Oh even _better_. Nothing says true love like a murder!" he cackled.

"Can we talk about something else now?" she whispered.

He stopped his laughter to pout at her.

"Are you uncomfortable, Doc?"

She brushed off his question and re-poised her broken pencil.

"On the topic of murder…" she cleared her throat, "did you purposely target members of the mob because of your father?"

"Is the reason you're a shrink because your mother completely lost her shit?" he retorted.

She stared at him, long enough for him to notice her bottom lip faintly quiver.

"Don't talk about her like that. You can put me down but you don't get to talk about her," she said quietly.

"You need to stop putting other people before yourself," he snapped.

"Look at you. Look how pitiable you are. You losing it, my little lamb. You're smiling so hard these days that you're teetering on the brink of a psychotic break. And you know what's _hilarious_? You have… no idea… who you are," he grinned darkly.

"I know who I am," she gritted her teeth.

"Save the jokes, dollface," he derided. "_I'm_ the one who gets to tell the jokes around here. _You_… You're lost. No one gets it. No one gets it but you. Isn't that right? I can tell that you hate this job. I can tell that you hate everything… and everyone… around you. I can see it in your face. You made a mistake, didn't you? Look at that framed diploma hanging behind you. Was that worth the unhappiness that currently plagues your sterile, plastic life? Mmm… Something's telling me that it wasn't…"

"That's not true," she shook her head.

"Oh but it is. And you know the punchline?_ I_ get it too. I know what it's like to hate… everything about the world we live in. Our society. Our… system. This city… We're kindred spirits. Two of a kind. The two… Jokers… in every deck of cards. The two Jokers who get… thrown out… every… time because they aren't considered… players. Bu_**t**_… what _they_ don't understand… is that a Joker is a wild card. It is entirely unpredictable. So while _they're_ always omitting the Joker from play… they don't realize that a Joker… can make… or break… the game. And here's the catch: there's always… _two_."

"Stop," her voice cracked.

"No. And that's because I'm _right_. I… understand… you. Now, you may not understand me… ye_**t**_… but you will. You're going to crack soon. You're… so… close… to detonating. Who are you fooling, kid? This isn't… you. This faux-yuppie charade you have going on… it's cute… but it's about to fall short. When are you going to stop and realize that… your entire life… the life that you currently live… is a sick joke? I mean, _I'm _not even laughing."

"Shut up! Just shut up!" she suddenly screeched. She reached down to wrench a black heel off her foot and began waving it around hysterically.

"I'm not your friend, or your girlfriend, or your guinea pig, or whatever. I'm your _psychiatrist_," she seethed.

His scarred smile elongated, engulfing the entire bottom half of his face. His yellowed teeth glowed contemptuously at her; all thirty-two a cause and consequence of her mounting rage. Her own white teeth gnashed together in hysterical fury before she shrieked,

"I hate you. I hate you so much."

He blinked at her vapidly, coal eyes indolent yet taunting.

"No you don't," he goaded.

"I do! I _hate_ you. You're… you're like this disease," she screamed, rising from her chair.

"_You_ are the worst thing that has ever happened to me! Get out of my head. You're a monster. I… I hate you. I hate you. I _hate_ you," she shouted.

"No you don't. No you don't. No you don't," he crooned in a singsong voice.

A twisted, garish noise ripped from her throat and she suddenly hurled her shoe at him. It narrowly missed his head by several inches, though he remained perfectly still. The heel resounded against the wall with a _thwack_, scuffing the white paint with a ragged black streak.

He was grinning wildly now, serrated scars stretched from ear-to-ear, eyes dancing with dark glee.

She darted from behind her desk and stopped a foot from him. She was baring her flawless teeth in a feral snarl and several locks of blonde hair had fallen from her seamless bun. Large, manic eyes glared at him hotly and his feverish smile continued to grow.

"You want to see my scar?" she screamed, and a dribble of spit flew out from her mouth. He merely blinked at her with naïve, innocent eyes.

"Fine, take a good fucking look," she spluttered before hitching her black skirt up mid-thigh.

She ripped down her opaque stockings to reveal her pale, toned legs. It was clear that they had been neglected of vitamin D for some time now, though she had managed to retain a good amount of her athletic physique from her college days. She planted her hands on her petite waist and her lips pulled back into a perverse sneer.

"Look at it," she demanded. "It's hideous. _Hideous_. Are you happy? Are you fucking happy?"

He cocked his head in rapt curiosity and silently zoned in on her right knee to drink in the thin, lengthy scar that tainted her otherwise unblemished legs. It was a neat incision, with pink, mutilated scar tissue healed perfectly into place - clearly the work of a skilled surgeon. Her creamy skin had been cut and stitched meticulously; it was masterful, by all medical standards. Yet as his eyes scanned back up her body, past her womanly curves up to the girlish rage in her eyes, he realized that these two inharmonious components would form the foundation for his own forthcoming masterpiece.

"I think it's beautiful," he said simply.

Her tense jaw slacked and dropped open. Cognizant horror masked her face as it visibly dawned on her as to what she had just done and she immediately began to tremble. She clutched the hem of her skirt, suddenly feeling very, very exposed. A thousand different emotions swam through her eyes as he continued to stare at her, until he finally smirked.

"You might want to pull those back up before Franky Boy gets a solid look at yours legs, toots."

* * *

"_Wassup Harley," Tony nodded at her._

_She smiled back at him and slid into the booth seat across from him. She'd hung out with him a couple of times and had learned that he happened to be a childhood friend of Jack's. He was two years older, currently not in school and worked at Mario's to not only offset the price of his vices, but to keep his entrepreneurial father content. His father and Jack's were apparently close business associates, but that was a loose term in the world of organized crime. _

_Speaking of vices, he was waving around his driver's license, which happened to be sheathed with a thin film of white powder. She'd learned that he occasionally cut up a few lines during his midnight shift at the diner, particularly because it kept him wired all night. Additionally, to combat the insipidness that resulted from a continuous lack of customers, the coke kept him entertained with the most hackneyed of activities. Apart from playing mind-numbing card games and listening to an abused Killing Joke CD on loop, he would spout anything and everything on his mind to anyone that would listen. _

_In this particular instance, he was manically gesticulating the card in the tune to the word vomit spewing out of his mouth. His jaw was moving faster than his brain could form words, much to the amusement of a sober Jack and Harley. They indulged him by listening keenly to his cracked-out monologues, though his oldest friend occasionally chortled at the degree to which he could dramatically orate his thoughts. The two sat across from their animated friend, whose pupils were inundating in excitement. _

"_So my old man gets home late one night. Like, mad late, I'm talkin' four or five in the morning. And my ma… My ma was waitin' up for him. And he walks in totally lit up. Lit up you guys, like can't even say his own name because he's so loaded. So she's waitin up, sittin' at the dinner table. And she was slavin' all night over this beautiful, beautiful meal. And he didn't show up to dinner that night. So she…"_

_He paused to chuckle. _

"_She's sittin' there with one of his pieces next to his plate. And he walks in, stops, and is just like, Maria, what the hell are you doing? So she picks up the gun and is wavin' it about spoutin' off about how he's an idiot and then he's just like… Stop that. You stop that I already had dinner tonight. I had some penne. I had some penne with the boys. It's okay. And she just stares at him before she completely loses it. Starts throwin' shit and everything. And he's sweatin' at this point. Like, shittin' his pants and she knows it. Then she's like… Ha! Hahaha, she's like, Mario you sonuvabitch don't you even think about runnin'. Unless you can run faster than twelve hundred feet per second that's the speed that this bullet will bite you in the ass. And he's never missed dinner since."_

_The three of them started laughing loudly before he motioned his license at his friend._

"_Tell her, Jacky. What's my Ma like?"_

"_A lioness," he replied simply. _

"_Yeah but she takes care of us. Feeds us, keeps us in line. That spaghetti Jacky's obsessed with? Her recipe. She's a real lady," he beamed proudly._

_Harley genuinely smiled at him and, for a moment, they sat in comfortable silence._

"_Hey," a mischievous grin suddenly spread across his face. "You guys want to go somewhere?"_

"_Isn't this a 24-hour diner?" she teased._

"_So what? Who the hell is going to come in here?" he gestured around the empty establishment._

"_We should go to the Mile. When was the last time we were there, Jacky?"_

_He merely shrugged. _

"_What's the Mile?" Harley asked._

"_Oh, I forgot. You're not from here. Amusement Mile." _

"_It's an amusement park," Jack replied._

"_You want to go there right now? It's like, two in the morning," she furrowed her brow._

"_It's abandoned," Tony grinned. _

"_Oh."_

"_Yeah," he nodded. "And it's just sittin' there. The city won't even touch it. The Mayor would rather piss all his money into that insane asylum over on that island than even think about the place." _

"_Arkham Asylum?"_

"_Yeah, yeah," he nodded, "Arkham. Anyway, let's go to the Mile. We can explore and do whatever. We can do anything! The place is totally lawless. The cops hardly prowl there. No authority. Nothing. Doesn't that sound fuckin' great?"_

"_That's just the coke talking, Tone. Anything would sound fucking great to you right now," Jack sneered. _

"_Nah though, just listen to me! Okay, okay maybe I am kinda loaded but still… This could be fun. What do you think, Harl?"_

_He turned to her eagerly._

"_I mean…" she scrunched her face in deliberation before gauging Jack's face. He blinked indifferently._

"_Aw, c'mon guys," Tony pleaded with feverish hazel eyes. "Get on my level. I could chop up a couple rails for us and then we can go, aight?"_

"_Yeah, whatever. Screw it, let's go," she shrugged and turned to Jack expectantly. _

_He rolled his dark eyes in apathy. _

"_She's cooler than you, bitch," Tony grinned at him haughtily. _

_Half an hour later, the three clambered up out of the subway station. The closest stop to the Mile was several blocks away, as the city's metro had stopped all train access to the park, so it took several more minutes for them to actually reach their destination. Finally, they approached the abandoned park, armed with nothing other than a mutually shared invincibility complex fortified with a dose of cocaine-induced arrogance. _

_The sprawling compound was shrouded in darkness and lingering smoke from the nearby steel mill, thus reducing visibility. Regardless, the three shuffled forward and stopped underneath the decaying, mutilated entranceway. Thirteen iron-wrought letters loomed above them, spelling out the words "_Amusement Mile_" in the rusted mouth of a grinning, demented clown. The rides, composed of twisted, corroding metal, were rotting from the bottom up. Years of neglect, weathering, and perhaps a curse, oxidized the metals to the point where they had become distorted and treacherous. Rides once meant for enjoyment had, over time, evolved into decrepit death traps. Yet while the general public strayed far, far away, it was clear that derelicts used the park as a pissing ground. _

_Harley took a step forward and something crunched underneath her dirtied Converse. She lifted her foot to find a bloodied, shattered needle and she quickly glanced up at her two companions in revulsion. _

"_Gives Disneyland a run for its money, huh?" Jack smirked darkly. _

_She scrubbed the sole of her shoe against the ground, smearing droplets of infected blood into the cracked pavement. Her overconfidence quickly receded and she suddenly wiped her hands on her pants in disgust._

"_When did they shut it down?" she glanced up at him._

"_Like ten years ago," Tony answered. "Bankruptcy, I think. Although… there's a rumor that too many people died on the rides," he teased._

_A cawing seagull fluttered past them and she skittishly swiveled her head toward the bird. Similar to that of Coney Island's list of failed amusement parks, the Mile was coastal. It, like Park Row and other dreadful neighborhoods, was situated on Downtown's East End, enjoyed the coastline of the Atlantic, and was largely ignored by both the public and the Mayor's administration. _

"_This is like a cheesy horror movie waiting to happen," she chewed her bottom lip nervously, taking a step backward._

"_Ah ta ta," Jack chided and grabbed her arm. He yanked her into his side and wrapped an arm around her tensed shoulders._

"_No backing out now, kid," he murmured gruffly into her ear. "You wanted to talk like a big girl, now show me that you can act like one." _

_The hair on the back of her neck hardly had time to rise before he shoved her forward. While she managed to catch herself, the thundering beat of her pulse smacked repetitively against her skull. _

"_Alright," Tony grinned, "let's go."_

_They ventured forth and slowly combed through the littered pathways, curiously glancing up and around them. Passing underneath a crumbling rollercoaster, the three stopped at a boarded-up structure. It had a peculiar sloped roof and was painted a schizophrenic mottle of colors and shapes._

"_Hey Harl, check it out. It's you," Tony jested. _

_He was pointing at a faded, tattered poster on one of the walls. From what could be determined from its remnants, a petite girl posed theatrically with a million-watt smile. She sported a meticulously stitched leotard that boasted an ostentatious white and black harlequin pattern. Discolored, vintage print displayed: _

Amusement Mile Presents: The Amazing Harlequin Girl! Come See Her Perform!

"_Just throw on some face paint on, rock a tight little number and do all your flips," he snickered. _

"_Are you saying that I'm a circus freak?" she snorted. _

"_Nah, I mean, you could be. You're a little acrobat as it is," he smacked the poster, open-palmed. _

"_Uh huh," she nodded. "And then maybe I could date some other circus freak and we'd have a strange bohemian life together." _

"_Word," he laughed. _

_They continued their taboo exploration for about half an hour, glancing at torn posters and dilapidated rides, until they came across the park's funhouse. It was enormous, and not to mention, poorly boarded. The entrance had once been tightly sealed, though it was clear that the nailed wooden plank had been slightly pried off. _

"_I wonder how many bums live in here," Tony mused aloud, craning his neck upward to scale the building. _

"_You scared?" Jack grinned mockingly. _

"_Me?" he chortled. "Nah. Looks like our little harlequin girl is though."_

_He gestured at Harley, who had her arms crossed tightly against her chest. The two friends shared a brief laugh at her expense and she turned around to glare at them. Wordlessly and obstinately, she clambered past the wooden plank that blocked off the right half of the doorway. Once inside, she immediately began wheezing, as a decade's worth of dust particles swirled into her lungs. She pushed forward though, waving her hand in her face to combat the cobwebs and musty stench. Her head swiveled to and fro, assessing the unnerving corridor._

_She quickly deduced that she was in the house of mirrors. As she continued forth, she watched her misshapen reflection pass through the mirrors. She grew tall and spindly and then shrunk to short and portly, much to her amusement. Her fear quickly melted into giddiness and she continued onward through the mirrored corridor. The next set distorted her head, then the following her eyes, and finally, her smile. She watched herself evolve and devolve into strange yet humorous forms, until she finally stopped to gauge herself._

_For a long moment, she stared at herself in the warped mirror. Her pupils were significantly dilated, though her large blue eyes were clear and vibrant. Her mouth was hilariously enlarged, and she began touching her face. She smushed her cheeks together and gnashed her oversized teeth, her reflection staring goofily at her. She giggled to herself before hooking her two index fingers inside the corners of her lips and pulling her mouth into a wide, open grin. She turned her head from side to side, assessing all thirty-two of her clenched teeth. The replicate image began giggling again as she continued to ogle herself._

"_Hello, Harley," she stifled through her teeth._

"_Hi there!" she responded in a silly, singsong voice. _

_The girl and her reflection enjoyed several more moments of a silent, senseless dialogue, or perhaps a monologue, before they both felt a tap on their shoulder._

_They spun around to meet Jack, who was staring at her, head cocked in interest._

"_Hi," she muffled, her two fingers still hooked in her mouth._

"_What are you doing?" the corner of his lip twitched in amusement._

"_I'm really high," she giggled before turning back to the mirror. _

_She pulled her mouth into a smile once more, stretching her lips and widening her eyes. He turned to face his reflection as well and stared evenly at himself. His mouth was pulled into a taut line and after a moment, he leisurely ran a finger along his cheek. Her eyes shifted to his reflection in the mirror and she suddenly pulled her fingers out of her mouth._

"_Why are you so serious?" she blinked at him. He stared back at her reflection and smirked._

"_I'm not," he stated before pushing his upper lip back with a fingertip. _

_His dark, lucid eyes scanned the top row of his teeth before he hooked the left corner of his mouth. He pulled his lip back slowly before repeating the procedure on the other side. His mouth, as it already was, was wider than his two rows of teeth. Thus when he smiled, genuinely smiled, it was the toothiest smile she ever saw and then some. He pulled harder against his lips, nearly engulfing the entire bottom half of his face._

"_You look kind of scary. Like one of those mental patients who have to get their teeth checked out," she giggled and he turned to her._

"_Mental patients are entitled to dental healthcare?" he widened his eyes madly at her. She giggled loudly, one of her tinny giggles, and it resounded eerily off the walls._

"_I don't know," she shrugged. He reset his mouth to normal and began wiping his fingers against his black t-shirt. _

"_You have really nice teeth," she smiled after a moment. "Have you ever had braces?_

"_No."_

"No?_" she asked incredulously. "You're so lucky. I spent six years in braces. Six years! Do you know how much physical and psychological torture that was? It was… dreadful. We spend all this money, and time, and pain on making teeth perfect. It's bizarre."_

"_The things we do for perfection," he smirked. _

_She sighed and tapped her front tooth with a fingernail. _

"_I went through a lot for this smile," she professed. _

"_Guys?" Tony's voice suddenly echoed throughout the funhouse._

"_What?" Jack shouted back._

"_Where are you? We're in some shit, man. The pigs are here."_

_Ten minutes later, the three were rounded up outside of the funhouse. A tall, burly cop with a hardened face frowned deeply into his notepad. He was scribbling out their names and shaking his head. After a moment, his walkie-talkie began to crackle and he fished it from his belt._

"_Yeah, copy," he muttered into the device. "Just a Code 1. Got three punks here for trespassing. All white. Two male, one female." _

"_10-4," it crackled back. He clipped it back onto his belt and scratched something onto the pad. _

"_What the hell are you kids doing?" he glanced up at them. "I've been working this beat for years and I can tell you right now that anyone who comes here is up to no good."_

"_We were just curious, officer. We didn't mean any harm," Harley offered meekly._

"_Now what were you curious about seeing in an abandoned amusement park at three-thirty in the morning?" he sneered._

"_Sorry officer –" Tony interjected._

"_Did I say you could fuckin' talk?" he snapped. _

_Tony's jaw immediately slammed shut and he began shifting his eyes in mounting panic. The cop glanced back down at his notepad before staring intently at Jack. He glimpsed his pad a second time before squinting his eyes._

"_Are you… Jack Napier's boy?" he suddenly asked. "You Jacky?"_

_He nodded mutely and the cop started laughing._

"_Jesus," he guffawed, "you look just like your old man. It's uncanny."_

_He was wearing a wily grin now - a Faustian grin - while shaking his head in wonder. _

"_Damn, that's uncanny," he repeated before glancing back down at his pad. _

"_I always thought you were gonna look like your mother. Beautiful lady," he said strangely._

_After a brief, tense pause, the three watched him rip out the piece of paper and ball it in his fist. He tossed it over his shoulder and tucked his pencil neatly into the pad's spiral._

"_Are… are we in trouble?" Harley asked timidly. He glanced at her and shook his head._

"_Nah, just get outta here. And you," he pointed at Jack._

"_Tell your father to give me a call. He'll know who you're talking about."_

_At four in the morning, the three had made it down to the subway and hopped a westbound train. It only took Tony several minutes to sprawl his body out across a row of seats and fall asleep. He began snoring loudly, while a silent Jack and Harley sat across from him. _

_His dark eyes were glazed over vacantly, though his clenched jaw occasionally twitched. In turn, she was staring up at an advertisement for dental cosmetology and she couldn't help but smile to herself. _

"_So is your dad in with the cops?" she finally asked. _

"_What's it look like?" he snapped irritably. _

_She blinked at him in exhaustion. They were coming down from their high, which only blackened his mood. A hundred questions smashed through her head, though she knew better than to ask any of them out loud. She wanted to know about his mother; why she'd never seen her, why he never spoke of her. She knew better than to push him, of course. So she opted for a different route, one that would at least attempt to keep his temper at bay._

"_So you're like… untouchable," she began playfully._

"_The great, mighty Jack… Heir to the city's underbelly. If you play your cards right this city could be yours." _

_Though he continued to stare at absolutely nothing, a tiny smile threatened to emerge from his lips. She was determined to coax it out._

"_You're destined for greatness," she teased further, "you're going to run the show. I can see it now… one step ahead of everyone."_

"_Look at you planting megalomaniac ideas into my head," he glanced at her._

_A goofy, Machiavellian-esque energy coursed through her brain as she began elevating her own mood. He could sense it, though he never minded an occasional ego stroke, and his mood consequently increased with hers._

"_Well if you're going to run this city I should absolutely have some involvement," she continued frivolously._

"_Like?" he mused._

"_Maybe I could be your right hand. Or your hitwoman. Bang, bang, bang," she cocked her index finger and thumb back in a swift motion._

"_Uh huh," he nodded. _

"_It would be awesome," she added. "We would be awesome. And then maybe I can have a couple of badass dogs to flank my sides. Like Rottweilers. Or hyenas."_

"_Hyenas?" he raised his eyebrows._

"_Yeah," she nodded glibly._

"_You're ridiculous," he scoffed, though his amused smile betrayed him. _

"_The king and queen of Gotham," she beamed coquettishly. _

"_Yeah? And then what happens if you end up dating one of my henchmen? Instead of helping keep my criminal empire afloat you're going to be off screwing Jonny Jonny at all hours of the night."_

"_Ick, no! How bourgeoisie," she wrinkled her nose. "And you can't go dating some pathetic, useless woman either," she added. _

"_I won't allow it."_

_He threw his head back in howling laughter and she quickly joined him. Her tinny giggles, coupled with his hearty cackle, were cause enough for Tony's unconscious body to stir. _

"_Wha?" he slurred. _

_His eyes cracked open and he sluggishly glanced at his surroundings in a semi-conscious stupor. He blinked at his companions bewilderedly before rolling over and burying his face into the back of a seat. _

"_Jesus, you two sound like a bunch of fuckin' hyenas," he muttered irately._

_The two merely laughed harder, pulling out every type of sound and call from their vocal repertoires, further irritating their snoozing friend but entertaining the other. They did this until they accidentally fell asleep and woke up several hours later to the judgmental, perplexed stares of other passengers, mainly suit-clad commuters. Yet before they were even aware of this fact, Harley and Jack had exchanged a puzzled glance before they realized that she had used his thigh as a pillow and he, in turn, had a hand tangled through her knotted hair. As she frantically scrambled upright and he un-snared his hand, the two glanced outward at their audience. Jack, in a daze, merely blinked at them, but Harley immediately began laughing. She laughed herself to tears before she stood up, grabbed Jack and Tony's wrists and dragged them off the train. _

_The businesswomen on the train swapped confounded glances regarding the bizarre, laughing girl. They primped their perfect hair and smoothed out their ironed dresses in response, almost fearful to have been flecked with any of her filth. Though eventually, she faded from their thoughts, because after all, she was only a girl._

* * *

Thanks for reading! Sorry for the slight update delay - I'm attempting to update every week. While this one took a little bit to churn out I should have the next one up and running fairly soon :)


	5. Nude

Normal font = present day, italics = past (10 years ago)

DC owns everything.

* * *

You paint yourself white  
And fill up with noise  
But there'll be something missing  
-_Nude_, Radiohead

"Doctor?" a voice resonated down the corridor.

Harley continued slogging forward, oblivious to her bleak surroundings. After Monday's session, she found it increasingly difficult to respond to anything outside of her own head. The session's incident had played over in her mind like a broken record, further robbing her of sleep and hammering at her volatile emotions.

"Doctor!" the voice drew closer.

She trudged onward, third cup of coffee balanced between her trembling fingers, before a hand grabbed her shoulder. She jumped violently and spun around to meet an equally startled Bruce Wayne. He was staring at her with alarmed blue eyes before the hard line of his mouth cracked into a playful grin.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he chuckled merrily.

"Oh my goodness," she gasped through a forced laugh, "you almost gave me a heart attack, Mr. Wayne."

"That was not my intention," he smiled sincerely before they shared a brief pause.

"Can… I help you?" she glanced at his hand on her shoulder.

"Oh!" he exclaimed and quickly withdrew it.

"Well, yes," he continued, "I just wanted to apologize for my behavior the other day. It was unacceptable of me to have been prying about such personal information. I could tell that I had… upset you."

"That's quite alright," she smiled politely.

"Let me make it up to you," he gazed at her earnestly.

"Oh no, really – "

"You're not a vegetarian are you?" he smirked.

"Mr. Wayne – "

"I didn't think you were," he nodded. "So dinner tomorrow night at 7?"

"Mr. Wayne, I really don't think – "

"Does the Iceberg Lounge work for you? It's a little hard to find, I know, but it's over on 5th and Vanderbilt," he gestured animatedly with his hands.

"I –

"Over by – "

"Wayne Tower," she interjected. "I know where it is, sir."

"Bruce," he corrected.

She blinked at him with exhausted eyes before conceding with a heavy sigh.

"Bruce," she repeated after a moment.

"Excellent," he grinned. "I'll see you there, Doctor."

He flashed her another sunny playboy smile before turning to walk back down the corridor. It was not long before his crisp black suit, accompanied by his perfectly slicked dark hair, blended into the shadows of Arkham and he had disappeared from sight. She stared after his amorphous silhouette, stunned, before she absentmindedly began her trek in the opposite direction toward her office.

"Shit," she muttered.

An hour later, she was sitting in front of her restrained patient. She noted that his facial infection had subsided, and though his serrated scars were still marginally swollen, she knew that that was from his deeply imbedded habit of periodically licking at them. Yet even despite the scars, he probably looked better than she did at that moment.

"I want to apologize for my behavior last session. It was completely out of line and I am so, so sorry," she began.

He glanced at her; at her exhausted countenance, at her sloppily made ponytail, at her tear-brimmed eyes.

"No need to apologize," he crooned, "everyone needs to let off some steam once in awhile."

His dark eyes blinked at her innocently and the small, assuaging smile perched at his scarred lips further lulled her into a state of self-deprecation and guilt.

"I'm so sorry," she squeaked.

Fat tears welled in her shimmering eyes and she immediately began gnawing on her bottom lip.

"Would you like to come sit here?" he offered tenderly.

She stared at him, and for the briefest of instants, she considered his proposal.

"No," she finally shook her head and averted his gaze.

Her fingers curled around her brand new pencil, and she sniveled into her notepad.

"Are you taking your medication?" she sniffed.

"Yes."

Her vision suddenly blurred and she attempted to blink her sight back.

"How is it treating you?" she murmured.

"Fine."

A single teardrop fell onto her pad, staining the paper.

"Are you still vomiting?" her voice cracked.

"Occasionally."

She suddenly set down her pencil and wiped an eye with several fingers. She could feel him watching her intently, and as if to avoid his judgment, she buried her face into her hands. It took no more than ten seconds for her shoulders to being shuddering, and he heard the muffled sobs emanating from her stifled mouth.

"Harley, Harley, Harley, Harley," he crooned, "Come tell Daddy what's wrong."

She raised her head to meet his gaze and fervently shook her head, akin to that of a petulant child.

"What's wrong?" he coaxed.

"Nothing. It's nothing," she sniffled and wiped at her eyes.

"Now I wonder why I doubt that," he smirked darkly.

She plucked a tissue from the box on her desk and began to dab at her face. He benevolently granted her several moments of silence before she had cleared her cheeks of all tears, smears and smudges.

"Thank you," she finally sniffed and cracked a genuine smile.

She straightened herself out in her seat and smoothed out her knee-length dress.

"How's the journal?" she asked thoughtfully.

"_Fun_," he grinned enigmatically.

"How so?" she blinked.

"Oh you have no idea," he giggled.

It was a low, haughty giggle. An ominous giggle.

"Fun in what way?" she furrowed her brow.

"I've been doodling," he shrugged casually.

"Oh wonderful," she smiled sweetly. "What in particular?"

"I gave Batman a big… old… smile," he grinned.

"I'd… like to talk about your relationship with him," she stated, though it was more of a suggestion than a statement.

"How do _you_ feel about him?" he narrowed his eyes.

"Well I think that he does good for this city," she offered.

"Good," he sneered, "he doesn't emulate _goodness_, he just happens to tout his own vigilante philosophy, which, in itself is inconsistent… and… contradictory. Though is that not inherently paradoxical, for he is he _not _a man of discipline? What is a man to do when his own actions belie his personal philosophy?"

"Why are _you_ talking about inconsistency?" she retorted.

"Ah ta ta," he smirked darkly. "This is not about _me_. This is about a man who claims to exude the purest forms of order and goodness. Now, consider the fact that goodness entails the upmost stature of moral and social excellence."

"Okay."

"Do you… happen to know his number one rule?" he raised an eyebrow, and his tongue flicked out to assuage his scars.

She furrowed her brow in contemplation.

"He doesn't kill," she suddenly declared.

"Mmmmhm. Now… think about this. How much blood does he really have on his hands? Hmm? By not taking off his mask, how many people died for _his _vigilantism? How many people… died… by the selfish hands of someone who claims to _guard_ this city and its populace?"

"A lot?" she answered.

"Is that representative of a white knigh_**t**_?" he prodded.

She shifted around her seat in hesitation before shrugging.

"No?"

"Now that's pretty counterproductive, don't you think? And have you ever considered the fact that he's directly… killed people? Perhaps not in the actual moment, but after awhile someone's bound to croak from internal bleeding. How could it be, with night after night of wiping the pavement with scumbags' jaws, that his slate is entirely clean?"

"Okay, maybe he's not entirely innocent… or good," she admitted.

"This doesn't have to be a teeth pulling process," he chided. "Paradigm shifts can be… difficult… to accept, but you need to open up your _mind_, Harleen."

She pursed her lips, allowing him to continue.

"Now… do you think he's… sane?" he grinned inexplicably.

"Sane?" she blinked in bewilderment. "Of course."

"_No_," he snapped. "No. No, no, no, no. Listen. Who… the hell… dresses up as a flying rat? Who in their right mind does that?"

"Who wears a purple suit and blows up buildings?" she countered.

"_Me_. And don't digress, my dear. We've already had this conversation, and I don'_**t **_like to waste my monologues."

She couldn't help but smile to herself.

"And you know what, toots…" he purred.

"What?" she blinked.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe _he_ had a bad day once? I mean, look at him. He dresses up like a bat and flaunts a hypocritical crime fighting philosophy. He spends all of his money, or has access to said money, on this philosophy. This… way of life. It is the crux of his existence, is it not?"

She nodded.

"But why?" he continued.

"What _happened_ to him to have made him this way? Did his wife die by the hands of the mob? Brother get too sucked in to corruption? Parents gunned down in cold blood?"

He gazed at her expectantly, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

"He had a bad day. Like… you," she said quietly.

"What makes him so different from me then?" he demanded.

"He… wants to protect people from the bad day he suffered from. You… you want everyone to experience yours," she whispered.

"Because this entire world is a joke," he snapped. "It's all a big… fa_**t**_… joke. And you know who's not laughing?"

"Who?" she sighed.

"Bat…man. He doesn't _get it_. People… like Batman… or Jeremiah Arkham… live to put us down. They work to wipe the smile off our faces. Look… at… me. I try to show everyone the funny side… I try to show everyone the _truth_. And what do I get? I get thrown in here… to fester… in my own filth. Now what about you? You are just as much a prisoner of this institution as I am. Sure, you've got that badge, but _you_ are no less trapped than _me_."

She glanced down at the Arkham staff ID clipped to her white lab coat.

"You hardly _smile_ anymore," he continued, "you're drowning. I can see that. Where's that smile? Hmm? Where's that smile, Harley girl? And you have such a lovely smile, I might add."

"You think so?" she asked sheepishly.

"It's the prettiest smile in Gotham," he purred with a wink.

"Second after mine, of course," he added.

A pink blush stained her round cheeks and a bashful smile danced at her lips. He was grinning madly now, reveling in her unintentional exhibition. Though, as her eyes reconnected with his, her visage quickly reverted to a normal state.

"Hey," she suddenly narrowed her eyes. "Are you… flirting with me?"

"Me?" he stared at her incredulously. "Now why would you think that?"

"Because I know you're up to something," she glared.

"Mmmm," his scarred mouth grew into an uncontrollable grin.

"_There_ she is. There's… the Harley… I know. I didn't know how much more I could take of _Harleen_," he scorned.

"There is no difference between Harley and Harleen," she scoffed, "I'm just me."

"Oh no, no, no. They are distinctly different. But do _you_ know where Harleen stops and Harley starts? Because_ I_ do," he giggled gleefully.

His grin, defying all possibilities, grew even further.

"And when are you ever Jack?" she asked quietly.

As she watched his proverbial grin fall and reshape into a distorted, feral snarl, she realized that she had unintentionally hit one of the last, or perhaps the last, of his scarcely remaining nerves.

"Don't you _ever_ say that name," he roared wrathfully.

The hair on the back of her neck rose, but she forced herself to stay planted.

"Where is he?" she demanded harshly.

"Dead," he sneered.

Both his jaw and right knee were twitching severely, but one glance at his constrained upper body allowed her the precarious confidence to continue.

"I don't think so," she whispered.

"Wha_**t**_?" he spat, eyes bulging.

"He's in there somewhere. He's your last shred of humanity. And_ I'm_ the one keeping him alive," she declared.

He sprang from the chaise but she had already pressed the emergency security button underneath her desk. As he slammed into the front of her desk, his coal eyes raged with dark fury. Earsplitting, carnal snarls ripped from his throat as he gnashed his teeth at her, and his arms and shoulders twitched underneath his straightjacket, as if in a vain attempt to burst through the constraints.

"You… stupid... _bitch_," he snarled.

"I'm not the only one who can have a temper tantrum," she crossed her arms with a smirk.

Almost immediately, the door flew open and the three usual Arkham guards poured in. They lunged at the hysterical man and jerked him back from the desk. It took all three of them to pin him to the ground, despite his lanky, constrained stature. He writhed underneath them, shrieking in cackles as they eventually wrenched him to his feet.

"Shut the fuck up, you animal," Frank bellowed.

He merely shrieked louder as the guards began to shove him out the door.

"Oh you think you have so much power," he swiveled his head back toward her.

"Just you wait, _Harleen_. Have I got a surprise for you! You think you're waving a royal flush in my face, but what you don't know is that I have an ace sitting in the hole. And the greatest part? You can't even see that it's sitting right underneath your nose!" he screamed in laughter.

She collapsed into her chair as the door slammed shut, though she could still hear his screeching cackles bounce through the hallway. Then, for the first time in many days, she left her office before the sun had set. She couldn't stand to be in her office anymore, or the institution, or even on the island for that matter. She refused to be in a one-mile radius of either Dr. Arkham or the Joker, because she just really, _really_ needed a goddamn drink.

By the time she had reached her destination, twilight had descended upon her ritzy Uptown neighborhood. She'd greeted her aging doorman with a wave before hustling toward the elevator and riding nineteen flights to reach her high-rise apartment. Then, after momentarily fumbling with her double-locked door, she entered her chic abode.

"Why are you ignoring me?" an airy voice greeted her.

She immediately spun toward her sleek black sofa to find a sea of red hair draped over the arm, and her apprehension quickly melted into a mélange of irritation and relief.

"Jesus, Red, how'd you get in here?" she moaned and started through her living room.

The intruder sat up and flashed her a nonchalant smile.

"Your doorman loves me, remember?" she purred.

A glass of red wine perched delicately between her slender fingers, and in her other hand she examined a framed photo.

"I always thought we looked adorable in this," she nodded before taking a slow sip.

In the photo the blonde and redhead held each other's waists tightly, both draped in matching black and gold graduation robes and a supplemental air of giddiness. They'd been best friends since freshman year of college, ever since they were randomly placed together as roommates and, somehow, despite their differences, were inseparable throughout both their undergrad and graduate years. While Harley had stayed at the medical school at Gotham University, Pamela had earned her doctorate in botanical biochemistry through the Plant Biology and Conservation program at Gotham's graduate school.

"Sorry for cracking your bottle open," she cooed and set the photo down onto the coffee table.

"But I've had a terrible day."

Harley's irritation soon melted as well, and she sighed before sitting down next to the redhead; she was secretly relieved that she did not have to spend the rest of the night alone.

"What's bothering you, Pam?" she probed, peering into her vibrant green eyes.

"Save the psychiatric evaluation," she waved her hand blithely.

"Just your typical work drama is all," she continued, "I'm sure you can relate."

"Oh you have no idea," Harley muttered.

"We're working on something incredible though," she chirped before taking another sip.

"What is it?"

"It's still very tenuous, but we're looking into researching the possibility of kleptoplasty in humans. It's a bit like science fiction, but if we can pull this off, we can become a mixotrophic species."

"Umm, Pam," she interjected, "plant jargon?"

"Oh," she laughed breezily. "Sorry. Okay, so humans are heterotrophic because we rely on external sources, such as plants or animals, to fulfill our need of organic carbon simply because we can't create it. Conversely, plants are autotrophic because they are able to fix carbon through photosynthesis. Now, both use reduced carbon compounds as an energy source, whether through creation or consumption. Still following me?"

"Uh huh," she nodded.

"Now, there are certain types of species that both heterotrophic and autotrophic. These are known as mixotrophs, meaning that they can consume other organisms for energy _and_ create their own through photosynthesis. In what is known as kleptoplasty, this is possible because they sequester the chloroplasts from organisms that they consume, such as algae. Now, chlorophyll, found in these chloroplasts, is what absorbs energy from light. What we're trying to do is to see if humans can become mixotrophic, or eventually autotrophic, by genetically modifying a host to create the proteins required for retaining chloroplasts. What this means is that a human will never have to eat again as long as she has regular access to sunlight."

"That's _crazy_, Red," Harley raised her eyebrows.

"It's _brilliant_. I wish I had thought of it. Ah, but us interns do tend to fall low on the totem pole, don't we?" she mused.

"Who thought of it?"

"Jason," Pamela sighed dreamily.

"_Jason_," her friend smirked, "of course. Have you slept with him yet?"

"No. But oh, I would let him do… anything to me," she hankered before taking a large sip of wine.

"How's work for you?" she suddenly turned to her best friend.

"It's driving me crazy," Harley sighed, "and my boss is… unbelievable. He's unbelievable, Pam. I can't even go into it right now. And my patient… he…"

"So it's a man," she smirked.

"Yes," she nodded.

"What's he like?" she asked gaily.

"He's… different. He has a completely different way of thinking. It's… it's like his brain is constantly ticking and ticking. It's dangerous. He… scares me, Pam. He terrifies me," she said quietly.

"_Shouldn't_ he terrify you? He's locked up in a nuthouse, for one."

"Don't talk about him like that," she retorted.

Pam's eyebrows were faintly raised before her plush lips curled into a smirk.

"Is he good looking?" she teased.

"What kind of question is that?" Harley suddenly crossed her arms.

"A curious one. Clearly _I'm_ not an advocate for workplace professionalism and I was wondering if you were," she simpered.

"I… think he is," she admitted sheepishly.

"Would you sleep with him?"

"Red!" she scowled defensively.

"Relax," she laughed easily. "I was just joking. Why are you so on edge?"

Harley glanced at her before grabbing the glass from her hand. She brought it to her lips and tossed the rest of the drink back.

"I have a date tomorrow night," she confessed.

"Do you?" she purred.

The redhead picked up the wine bottle from the table and offered it to her friend.

"With who?"

"Bruce Wayne," she admitted before accepting the gesture.

"_Really_?" her sparkling green eyes expanded. "Oh, Harley. Now _he_ is one tall glass of water."

"Stop it, Pam. I'm not very good at this," she sighed.

"Sure you are, Harl. You scored plenty of men in college," she assuaged.

"But I never… dated," she sighed, staring into the empty glass. "I'm not good at that. I'm not good at stuffing myself into a dress and going to dinner. I'm good at taking _off_ a dress."

"Honey, you're preaching to the choir," she quipped before grabbing the bottle back and pouring out the glass for her.

"Except men love you and you hardly have to try," Harley whined before taking a gulp of her newly replenished source.

"Men like you too," Pamela shushed, "and besides, does it even matter? They're all pigs in the end."

"Yeah, I guess," she giggled.

"Except for Guy Kopski. What a _sap_. All those days of carrying books and taking notes for you while you were on crutches and in a perpetual Hydrocodone stupor were completely for naught. I've never seen a man's heart shatter so brutally. It was as if you took a mallet and mangled it beyond repair," she laughed nostalgically.

"You're a bitch," the blonde scowled.

"And so are you."

* * *

_School for Harley was unremittingly monotonous. Even since her first day, she'd hardly retained a distinct face, name or interaction and, save for Jack, she hadn't made a single friend. On this particular Friday, she'd slogged her way through four morning classes and as she pushed her way past a throng of people to enter the cafeteria for lunch she, as always, was reminded that not making any friends was, indisputably, a poor decision. A cacophony of buzzing chatter and laughter rang in her ears and she was suddenly overwhelmed by the organized chaos presented in front of her. Nevertheless, she managed to find an empty table toward the back corner of the enormous room._

_Just as she had settled in with her tray of unidentified slop, Jack plopped down in the seat across from her._

"_What are you doing here?" she stared at him incredulously. _

"_I go here, remember?" he flashed an impish grin. _

_She hadn't seen him in school since the first day they had met on the bus, to the point where she had forgotten that he was in her year, let alone a fellow student. _

"_What classes do you even take?" she raised an eyebrow playfully. _

_He reached over to snatch her apple and took a large bite._

"_All APs," he responded, mid-chew._

"_No you don't," she scowled and grabbed the apple back from him._

"_Yeah," he nodded, "the administration threw me into all of them."_

"_So what APs?" she rolled her eyes and took a petite bite. _

"_Uh… Physics. Chem…. Calc…"_

"_What?" she laughed. "So basically you'd be on track to MIT if you didn't have, like, a 1.0 GPA."_

"_Yup," he popped the "_p_"._

"_So why'd you show up today of all days?" she probed._

"_I figured it's been a couple weeks since I checked out my hot calc teacher's ass," he grinned flippantly._

"_You're unbelievable," she smiled. _

"_Oh and we're having dinner with my dad tonight," he added nonchalantly._

"_What?" she suddenly spat. "No. I'm not going."_

_His playful brown eyes transformed into two coal spheres._

"_He doesn't take no for an answer," he murmured darkly. _

"_Well that's too bad because I'm not going," she shook her head._

"_You will go," he commanded with a sneer. _

_She blinked at him dubiously before narrowing her eyes._

"_Why?" she tested. _

"_He wants you there," he said simply._

"_But why?"_

"_He thinks… we're dating," he sighed. _

"_What?" she exclaimed loudly, "that's ridiculous."_

_She immediately began to giggle harshly and an unidentified emotion flickered through his murky eyes. _

"_Look I don't want to do this either," he muttered, "7 at The Laughing Fish. Be there."_

"_I hate fish," she made a face._

"_Then eat a goddamn salad. And… put on a dress or something," he added. _

"_A dress?" she mused. _

"_I don't know. Look nice or whatever," he rolled his eyes. _

_She issued a simpering smile before her eyes flickered back to him._

"_Nice shirt," she nodded glibly. _

_He glanced down at his black t-shirt with the claim, "_I Killed Your Parents_" scrawled across the front._

"_I've already been told like three times to take it off," he laughed, "fuckin' eunuchs."_

_Later that night, Harley showed up to The Laughing Fish in a red dress and black flats, though she had thrown on a cardigan at the last moment, as if she had suddenly realized just whom she was about to dine with. _

_Once she arrived at the restaurant, the hostess directed her toward the dim, shadowy VIP section situated in the far depths of the establishment. As she approached the intimate table, she could distinctly make out Jack and his father. They clearly weren't speaking, in fact, they were turned away from one another, and each had a hand curled around a glass of brown liquid. _

_Her heartbeat quickened when she fully drank in her friend, as he happened to clean up nicely. The matching components of his outfit were all conventional and all appropriately dapper; crisp purple button-up, black suspenders, black slacks, black dress shoes. Yet, despite his conformist ensemble, he was sporting a strange tie that was peppered with a mottle of squiggles and shades of green. _

_It brought a smile to her face._

_She then observed his father, who, save for his own spruce white button-up, was draped in all black. His blonder hair was slicked back meticulously; contrary to Jack's darker flyaway curls. Father and son certainly shared a strong genetic bond, but it was clear that they failed to share much else. _

"_Well hello there sweetheart," the elder version purred, his Cheshire cat grin returning._

"_Hi," she smiled politely before sitting down across from him. _

"_I don't believe I've formally introduced myself. Jack Napier," he gestured casually towards his chest. _

"_Harleen Quinzel," she nodded once. _

"_To be perfectly honest you look more like a Holly. Or a Candy," he mused._

"_People call me Harley," she replied defensively. _

"That's _more like it," he drawled, jabbing a finger at her. _

"_You're not twenty-one, are you?" he grinned, gesturing at Jack's scotch._

"_No, I'm seventeen," she smiled timidly._

"_You want one anyway?" his lip curled into a haughty smirk._

"_I'm fine, thank you," she shook her head politely._

_A waitress happened to be walking by, and his hand clasped onto her wrist. She turned to him, slightly startled._

"_A Cosmo for the lady," he gestured languidly at Harley. _

_In the corner of her eye, she watched Jack slam the rest of his drink before holding out the glass._

"_And a refill," he said quietly. _

"_Sure," the waitress smiled nervously before taking off._

"_Um… thank you," Harley offered meekly. _

"_Anytime, sugar," he grinned darkly. "So tell me. How'd you meet Jacky here?"_

"_We met at school," she divulged._

"_Did you?" he purred._

_She nodded._

"_And you work at the Lounge?" he probed._

"_I do."_

"_And you stay in school?"_

"_Yes," she confirmed._

"_Tell me then," he scoffed, "why the hell are you screwing my pathetic excuse for a son?_

"_I beg your pardon?" her eyebrows shot up._

"_He's a loser," he spat._

"_We're not – "_

"_I mean, _good job_, son," he turned to Jack. "It may just be your greatest accomplishment to date. She's certainly a looker."_

_His son failed to meet his derisive leer and instead, stared vacantly into the flame of the flickering table candle._

"_I'm telling you," his father turned back to Harley. "Twenty years ago and you would have been just my type, sweetheart."_

"_Is she not your type now?" Jack suddenly sneered. _

"_You and your fucking mouth," he snapped. "One day I'm going to have to cut that tongue of yours out."_

_The two glowered at the other, and she could see Jack slowly rubbing his thumb against the serrated blade of his steak knife. _

"_Here are your drinks," a nervous voice interrupted and all three heads snapped toward the waitress. _

_She set down a vibrantly pink martini glass in front of Harley and a double of pungent, brown liquid before Jack. She was smiling timidly and the blonde returned her smile with an apologetic one of her own. _

"_Are you all ready to order?" she asked._

"_I think so," Jack Sr. crooned. _

"_Ladies first," he stared directly at Harley. _

_She glanced anxiously at her unopened menu and then back at their waitress. _

"_What are your specials?" she asked docilely._

"_Swordfish, tuna, and sea bass," she fired off and Harley laughed uneasily._

"_Um… can I just have a large Caesar salad?" she murmured, her face discernibly paling._

"_I'm guessing you don't want anchovies in that?"_

"_Please," she nodded brusquely. _

"_Sure. And for you?" she turned to Jack._

"_Steak," he issued._

"_And how would you like that done?" she smiled._

"_Rare."_

"_Very rare or – "_

"_Bleeding."_

"_And the veal for me," his father grinned. _

"_I'll have those out for you shortly," the waitress beamed before scurrying away._

"_Have you ever been to the South?" Jack Sr. clasped his fingers together. _

_Harley was mid-sip with her neon pink concoction before she realized that he was addressing her._

"_Oh… no," she shook her head. _

_The sugary, viscous taste of the cocktail sat heavily on her tongue. She hated it. _

"_Everything is slower. Calmer. No rushing about. People choose their words carefully. It's like honey. Slow… deliberate… and sweet. Ah, but you're from New York. What would you know?" he smirked._

"_People in New York definitely have a way with words," she proffered. _

"_Colorful language, yes. But the delivery is like rapid fire. Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta," he smacked his hand repeatedly against the table._

_She eyed the gold class ring on his right pinky finger as it clanged against the polished wood. Three weeks earlier, it had shredded the corner of Jack's lip. Though his skin had healed, she also couldn't help but notice that his tongue, at that very moment, flicked out to knead the left corner of his mouth. _

"_There's no consideration. No delicacy. No appreciation for the _clout_ of a word."_

"_Are you… from the South?" she asked politely before taking another sip of her cocktail. _

"_New Orleans, born and raised," he beamed proudly. _

"_We moved when Jacky here was just a boy," he reached over to ruffle his son's locks and Jack tensed visibly. _

"_And when did you move, my dear?" he turned back to her._

"_This summer."_

"_Ah," he nodded, "fresh to Gotham. Still untainted by its… devious ways."_

"_Well Bensonhurst, Brooklyn isn't the most wholesome place to grow up," she countered._

"_Brooklyn is _not _Gotham, sweetheart," he chided. _

"_Though you have some spunk," he added, "I see that. You needed it, didn't you? Coming from where you do."_

_She glanced down at the table and nodded. _

_A thick, ostensible silence followed and the cocktail was back at her lips. Both Jack and his father followed suit, until all three had guzzled down their drinks. Harley swallowed hard as a sickly sweet explosion of sugar cloaked her mouth, but her empty stomach began to generate an immediate and much needed buzz. _

"_So Harley," his father purred and set his glass back down._

"_Are you applying to any schools?"_

"_I'm not sure yet," she replied. _

"_And why's that?" he tilted his head._

"_I don't have… I… really – "_

"_Is it money?" he interjected._

_The following silence was enough confirmation for him to continue._

"_It's _always_ about money. Everything is about money these days. Ah, but listen sweetheart, if you need to scrape something together I can always set you up with – "_

"_No," Jack snapped._

"_Excuse me?" his father spat at him._

"_Leave her out of it," he issued in a low growl._

"What_ did you say to me?" he boomed._

"_You going to hit me again?" he mocked, "go ahead. She's already seen you in action. Why not go for round two?"_

_His father's nostrils flared in subsiding rage before he took a deep breath._

"_I'm just trying to extend a _generous_ helping hand. She clearly means a lot to you, son, and I'd hate to see her go down to same goddamn road you're going," he disparaged. _

_Jack ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and began to loudly grind his teeth together._

"_Hi everyone," the waitress announced, though she could immediately gauge the tense atmosphere._

_She quickly set down each plate in front of each member of the party._

"_That was very fast," Jack Sr. grinned up at her._

_Harley picked up her fork and began toying with the pieces of lettuce. _

"_Just doing my job, sir," she smiled fearfully. _

"_Is… Is there anything else I can help you with?"_

"_Oh we're just_ fine_," he cooed. _

_She nodded once turned to scamper off._

"_So Jacky," he learned toward his son with a menacing leer. "Are you applying to any schools?"_

"_No," he muttered. _

"_Why not?" he demanded, his lip curled into a sneer._

"_I don't fucking want to," he spat back._

"_Jesus," he slammed his hand down onto the table. "Have some fucking tact."_

"_Tact," he sneered, "that's rich, Dad."_

"_Harley, sweetheart," his father turned to her. "If you know what's good for you, you should dump the sorry bastard. He doesn't know his left from right. Hell, the kid doesn't even _speak_. The last thing you need is getting knocked up and having to live the rest of your life with him _in it_."_

"_He speaks," she retorted. "He speaks, and you know what? He's brilliant. He's the smartest person I've ever met. And he's going to do something amazing one day, with or without your help. He's going to change the way people think."_

_Jack abruptly rose from the table and tossed his napkin onto his bleeding steak. Red quickly seeped through the white cloth and he grabbed his tailored black blazer before he began to silently stalk off._

"_Oh, okay. Just leave then," his father barked at him. "What a man _you_ are."_

_He ignored the jab and continued walking through the dimly lit restaurant, until he had faded from sight. Harley and his father stared at one another for a moment before she rose as well._

"_Thanks for the Cosmo," she offered before turning to run through the restaurant._

_She found him a block away, moving at an expedient rate, and her short legs struggled to match his long strides._

"_Jack," she called out to him. _

_He snubbed her and continued forth, until she finally caught up with him and tugged at his blazer. _

"_You need to get the fuck away from me," he snarled and ripped his arm from her grasp. _

_He veered off down the well-lit street, though she straggled alongside him. _

"_But – "_

"_Who do you think you are?" he suddenly spat, stopping both of them in their tracks. _

"_You think you know _me_? You think you can speak on _my_ behalf? You don't know me. You don't know a goddamn thing about me," he snarled._

"_That's not true," she snapped back._

"_Shut up," he roared and grabbed her shoulders. _

_He spun her around and slammed her back against the brick wall of a dark alleyway. Her head thwacked against the building as well, and a throbbing pain exploded inside her skull. He pinned her there and lowered his face down to hers, noses nearly touching._

"_You are no_**t**_ my friend. You are nothing to me," he sneered hotly._

"_Jack, please – "_

"_I wish I could wipe the hubris off your goddamn face," he barked. _

"_Jack," she whispered against his lips. _

_He glowered into her fearful eyes, waiting for her to continue._

"_You're my best friend," she confessed. _

_He suddenly grabbed her face and squished both cheeks together with his fingers._

"_I am not your fucking friend. Get that through your thick skull," he thundered. _

_He watched her round blue eyes well up with tears and she began bawling. She shuddered underneath his grip and he suddenly released her in disgust. Her hand shot out to grasp his and she attempted to entwine their fingers together._

"_Don't go," she sobbed, "please don't go."_

_He wrenched his hand from hers and started to back away. _

"_You disgust me," he sneered._

"_I need you," she cried harder._

_He turned and started to walk away, leaving her alone in the shadowy alleyway. She clutched at her hair and immediately began to gasp in mounting hysteria. _

"_You need me too," she shouted after him. _

_He stopped walking and stood underneath the illuminating light of the streetlamp. For one long, aching moment, she thought he was going to turn around and retrieve her for another one of their late-night adventures. That he would turn around with that flippant grin of his and tell her something hysterical. Or, even more implausibly, that he would return to her, hand outstretched, to pull her into the soothing embrace that she so desperately pined for. Yet he didn't. Instead, he began walking again, until his dark silhouette faded off in the distance, leaving her so terribly and utterly alone._

* * *

Several thangs: Pam is not the total misanthrope/misandrist we know her to be simply because she is not yet Poison Ivy. Also, it has been speculated that Ivy's disdain for the Joker stems from the fact that he reminds her of Jason Woodrue and I thought it might be fun to explore that. Oh, and the photosynthetic humans she was talking about? That's true. My environmental science professor told me that researchers _are_ looking into this possibility. Isn't that wild?!

Lastly, I'd like to **remind you all that this story is rated M** because in the next chapter there will be a slightly M rated scene happening ;)


	6. Closer

Normal font = present, italics = past (10 years ago)

DC owns everything

* * *

You let me violate you  
You let me desecrate you  
You let me penetrate you  
You let me complicate you  
-_Closer_, Nine Inch Nails

Harley and Bruce Wayne were sitting across from one another, toward the center of the restaurant. The Lounge's iconic penguin fountain loomed over them and the gourmet restaurant was beyond packed. Rumor had it that one had to call a month in advance for a reservation, although Bruce only had to pick up the phone the day before. Even if Harley hadn't gone on a date with Gotham royalty, she still knew every niche and crevice in the entire place, which _may_ have been enough for her to get a reservation in about a week. They'd already been served a rich red wine and equally decadent meals, and they smiled politely at the other as they picked at their food.

They'd exchanged the basic pleasantries about their mutual alma mater, the economy, and the frigid temperature of the restaurant before they were interrupted.

"Well I'll be damned," a familiar voice cawed.

Both of them turned to see Oswald Cobblepot waddling toward the table.

"Hi there Ozzy," Harley beamed.

She started to rise from her seat but he waved his hands manically.

"No, no, don't get up," he ordered.

He shuffled up to her and pecked both of her cheeks enthusiastically.

"You came back my little birdie! Oh but look at what a woman you've become," he tittered.

"I did," she laughed freely.

"And Mista Wayne," he adjusted his monocle to assess the notorious playboy.

"'Owa you this fine evenin'? Takin' one uh my girls out, I see. Y'know, ten years ago, and this birdie here was one uh my finest," he smirked proudly.

"Was she now?" Bruce smiled at Harley playfully.

"Oh yes. She was our most popular girl. Had men linin' up and down the block to get serviced by the Harley bird," he squawked.

She blushed and laughed bashfully.

"Now is there anythin' I can get for yuh?" he crossed his arms.

"Oh no, the service has been wonderful," she smiled genuinely.

"As it should be," he nodded curtly, "now if yuh need anythin' at all, just give a squawk, o'right?"

"Yes," she smiled.

"And you betta come 'round here more. Don't be a stranger," he wagged his finger.

"Ozzy, you know I can hardly afford it here," she teased.

"Ah, but you'll neva have to pay full price," he chuckled before patting her shoulder.

"You enjoy yuhselves now," he nodded at the two before turning to waddle off.

Bruce raised his eyebrows at her and she smiled modestly.

"I waitressed for him," she divulged.

"Ah," he returned the smile.

She glanced around at her former establishment of employment. Gorgeous women draped in luxurious dresses leaned in to their dapper dates and groups of exquisitely dressed men laughed over bottles of liquor that probably cost her monthly rent. She wondered if the mob still lurked here, though lurking was not the appropriate word for it, because wealth and transparency are two things that'll keep the cops away. The mob walked around in broad daylight, and back when she was seventeen, the Lounge was the place to do it. It was a safe zone; all of Gotham's crime families dined, wined, and did business at Oswald Cobblepot's lavish establishment. However, the Lounge was not exclusively criminal, for politicians, celebrities and wealthy civilians relished in the luxury of her former boss' playground. It was a playground in every sense of the word and was to be enjoyed solely by the wealthy, the criminal and the entrepreneurial.

She glanced down at the deep red floor-length dress that Pam had loaned her for the night. It was a beautiful garment, and probably extremely pricey, but knowing Pam, it probably was not obtained through legal means. Luckily for her, Pam had a kleptomaniac childhood friend who had taught her the art of cat burglary.

Harley smirked to herself, though she couldn't help but wonder if she really belonged here. She had no problem squeezing into her little black number as one of Ozzy's "birdies" and serving Gotham's finest, but sitting across from Gotham's prince himself in a stolen Chanel gown was something that was quite new to her.

"You look like you're not even really here. Am I that boring?" Bruce teased with a lighthearted smile.

She glanced up at him and she laughed casually.

"The joke's on you. I'm here for the fancy food," she winked.

"And so the truth comes out," he grinned.

She picked up her glass of wine and took a lengthy sip, eyeing the glamorous atmosphere. As she set it down, she tilted her head slightly.

"Do you ever feel like you're putting on a show?" she asked him blithely.

"That's a very peculiar question, Harleen," he smiled playfully.

"I suppose it is," she returned the smile.

"What do you mean by putting on a show?" he asked.

"A façade. So many people wear façades. People are incredible are disguising themselves. All it takes is a suit," she gestured at him.

"Or a dress," she pointed at herself.

"Or a mask. Even a smile. Though a smile is a mask, in a way."

He blinked at her before raising his own glass to his lips.

"Do _you _ever feel like you're putting on a show?" he asked her quietly.

"Sometimes," she admitted with a shrug.

There was a healthy pause as she smoothed a hand over her meticulously braided bun.

"Do you love this city?" she asked him suddenly.

He furrowed his brow deeply.

"Of course," he responded in an offended tone and set his glass down.

There was a pause before he tilted his head slightly.

"Don't you?" he blinked at her.

"It doesn't love me," she smiled sadly.

"Now how can you say that?" he frowned.

"The train doors never stay open for me, I can never find a cab when I need one, and every time I take a step outside I'm immediately rained or snowed on. I have laughable luck here. This isn't my city to love," she sighed.

"That's all very superstitious," he chided playfully.

"It's a New York mentality," she laughed.

"You know how everyone wears those "I Love New York" shirts?" she continued, "well New York is very finicky about who she loves back. She's not a very kind city at all, but if she loves you, she really does love you."

"How so?" he asked thoughtfully.

"The night before I moved to Gotham, I sat on the roof of my building and thought about how much I loved New York. I was staring out at Manhattan's skyline, all lit up and colorful, and thought about how beautiful it was. Then I looked out across Brooklyn, and it's not as glamorous or iconic, but it has so much character. And I thought about how much I had done and seen and learned from all that character and beauty, so then I thanked New York. I thanked my city for helping create me. And the moment I did that, fireworks started exploding in the sky. I think someone was throwing an early summer party somewhere across the Hudson. And I thought, oh my God, New York loves me back. She loves me!"

Her exuberant eyes and nostalgic smile quickly faded, only to be replaced with a forlorn expression.

"And then I moved to Gotham," she added wistfully.

"No fireworks?" he asked grimly.

"Exploding hospitals and car bombs," she rectified.

An unidentified flicker of emotion flashed across his face and he had to bring his glass to his lips.

"You know who loves this city?" she blinked. "Batman. I mean, he must."

"I would imagine so," he responded quietly.

"She doesn't love him though back though. Isn't that tragic? He does so much for her. He bleeds for her honor and she doesn't care," she sighed.

He set his glass down and frowned.

"I think that she does. In her own way," he offered.

"I would hope. For his sake. I think he must be slightly mad to keep doing what he does for a city who doesn't appreciate it. Isn't that what madness is? Repeating something over and over and expecting a different result?"

There was a ruminating pause as he stared into his glass, no longer the lighthearted billionaire playboy, but a brooding, troubled man.

"I suppose he is sort of mad," he finally admitted, raising his eyes to meet hers.

"I think that love can drive anyone mad," she continued softly, "it's completely unpredictable and irrational. Humans, evolutionarily speaking, are solely meant to reproduce. There's nothing in Darwin's book about love and emotions. And that's because love is utterly illogical; it fits nowhere in natural selection theory. But we all love, don't we? We do, and because we do, we defy logic. Like Batman and Gotham. A man and the love of his life."

"There must be some logic behind love," he frowned.

"There's no logic, other than maybe the idea of unconditional selflessness for another is an attractive quality in a mate. The human condition just created the notion of love to abate the anxiety one feels about inevitably dying. We all want a purpose to this life… and that's purely philosophical. There's a neuroscience behind love, though," she smiled.

"Is there?" he asked curiously.

"For the first eight to twelve months of a relationship, the dopamine levels in the brain completely spike. Dopamine controls mood, sleep, behavior, and most notably, pleasure. So this spike, if you will, drives this initial phase of passion and infatuation. In fact, the levels are so high that it's similar to substance addiction. Studies have shown that it rivals the usage of a methamphetamine. You are literally addicted to this person. He or she is all you think about, talk about, or dream about. You live for this person because for those eight to twelve months, you can't live without them."

"And what happens after that period?" he inquired.

"The dopamine levels return to normal and what's emitted is called oxytocin, which is most influential for women. It's associated with long-term attachment, such as motherhood. Conversely, men are most influenced by a hormone called vasopressin, which is associated with territorial behavior. But do you see? It all ties back to natural selection. Women want to reproduce and men want to protect what's theirs. This of course assumes that these two people even make it past the initial infatuation stage because most people honestly don't. Once dopamine levels return to normal, most people would call this falling out of love and they just don't care to see the rest of the relationship work out."

"Wow," he raised his eyebrows.

"And not only is love addictive," she continued, "but it's also obsessive and reckless. The phrase "crazy in love" isn't just a euphemism. While dopamine levels spike, serotonin levels drop drastically. Serotonin guards against uncertainty and instability because it provides the sense of being in control. Now when it drops, our sense of control decreases, and that, coupled with the intense rush from the dopamine, can be a scary combination. Also, the prefrontal cortex, which is the brain's reasoning and control center, shows low levels of activity when one is in love. When that happens, risk-taking behavior increases, hence the phrase "I would do anything for them." So here you have this combination of addiction, obsessiveness and recklessness and that's what we call love."

"The things you learn when you take a psychiatrist out to dinner," he mused with a smile.

"It's sort of interesting, isn't it?" she chuckled before sipping her wine.

"Is this what you research at Arkham?" he asked.

"No," she laughed lightly, "it was my medical dissertation. The effect of love on sanity."

"Now how did you secure an internship at Arkham?" he tilted his head.

"Actually, Dr. Arkham was at my thesis colloquium. He was supposedly one of the invited dignitaries. So after I defended my thesis he came up to me and offered me an internship. I was in complete shock. To be perfectly frank, I was planning to move back to New York after I got my doctorate but that threw a wrench in my plans. I couldn't turn it down," she sighed.

"Well, Arkham isn't the shabbiest gig," he smiled spiritedly.

"Every gig is shabby compared to yours, Bruce," she laughed.

He laughed with her before picking up a fork to toy with his steak tartare.

"Speaking of Arkham…" he raised his head before continuing, "and I know this may be none of my business… but have you seen the Joker?"

She had to take a long sip of her wine.

"Once or twice," she lied.

He nodded his head absentmindedly.

"He's a despicable man," he suddenly scowled.

"Maybe there's more to him than that," she offered abruptly.

Her own statement surprised her and he blinked at her dubiously.

"How do you mean?" he furrowed his brow.

"He must have been someone once, right? Everyone was always someone before they become who… they truly are," she sighed.

"What do you think he was before?" he asked calmly.

"Human," she said after a moment.

"Well now he's a monster," he retorted.

"You know what Nietzsche said about monsters?" she asked softly.

He blinked at her, ushering her to continue.

"Be careful when you fight monsters, lest you become one, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you," she issued with a pained expression on her face.

There was a thick, chewing silence and the two simultaneously reached for their wine glasses.

"We should probably both be grateful that we don't have to battle any monsters," he finally said quietly.

"Yeah," she nodded blankly.

Another pause followed and began absentmindedly playing with her fork.

"Although I have a… friend… who says that Nietzsche was a bullshitter," she smiled weakly.

He gazed at her with an inexplicable expression in his eyes.

"Let's hope that he was," he responded in a strange tone.

They resumed to picking at their food until he set his fork down in a hasty manner.

"I just don't know how a man like that is capable of any feeling," he shot his head up.

"He might be," she shrugged humbly.

"Psychopaths are incapable of feeling. You know that," he frowned.

"Maybe he's not a psychopath," she muttered.

"What?" he asked incredulously.

"Maybe… he's not the textbook psychopath that the media is painting him out to be," she proposed.

"I cannot believe that you're…. defending this man, Harleen," he shook his head in disbelief.

"I'm not defending him. I'm just trying to offer another perspective," she sighed heavily.

"There is _zero_ evidence offered that would prove that he is capable of… interacting with other people in a way that isn't manipulation or intimidation."

"Well what about Batman? All he does is intimidate people," she countered.

"That's for the greater good," he refuted pointedly.

Another long pause followed before she took a deep breath.

"I just think that maybe… Batman and the Joker aren't so different after all," she murmured.

"I completely disagree. I… I can't even believe that you would even make that statement," he said touchily.

It was clear that he was growing agitated, but the gentleman in him would never allow him to unravel.

"Nothing is ever black and white," she stated.

"Those two men are completely black and white," he responded in a frustrated tone.

"No," she shook her head, "they're both grey."

He sighed in concession and ran a hand through his neat black hair.

"I don't know what to say," he mumbled, staring into his glass.

"I'm sorry. I suppose it was my turn to upset you," she smiled regretfully.

The rest of the dinner somehow passed without incident. Just as she thought the entire date had flopped, Bruce had offered to walk her to her door. She had refused politely, citing her nineteen floors as a cause for deterrence, but he'd insisted.

As they reached her door, she turned to him.

"I'm sorry for upsetting you," she offered meekly.

He shook his head and reached a hand up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"You're a very beautiful woman, Harleen," he murmured.

"Am I?" she whispered with genuine wonder.

He leaned in to kiss her. It was a tender, polite kiss. As his lips connected with hers, she found herself frozen. He pulled away, and she blinked at him in a daze before issuing a dizzied smile. He returned the smile, yet as he turned to leave, she craned up to kiss him back. This time, it was long and bland. Lips unmoving, both pressed against the other with moderate force. No more, no less. It was a civil kiss, and as her lips turned numb, she was aching to feel something. He pulled away a second time and set his hands on her shoulders.

"Let's do this again sometime," he smiled politely.

With a curt peck on the cheek, he turned to leave.

She blinked numbly, utterly paralyzed. Though almost immediately, as if something inside her had snapped, she burst into her apartment and slammed the door. She leaned against it, rapidly heaving and gasping for air. Gripped by some monstrous urge, she ran her hands through her hair in exasperation before hitching her dress up. Her fingers fumbled their way down her lacy underwear and she began to touch herself. She felt entirely numb. Too numb. She felt nothing. So she began repeatedly hitting the back of her head against the door. Her fingers worked harder against herself, and yet, the only thing she felt was the stinging prick of tears in her eyes. She emitted a cry of frustration and pulled her hand out before glancing over at her coffee table.

Immediately, she was on her sofa with her patient file opened in her lap. Two photos stared up at her. One was a booking mugshot complete with greasepaint, lipstick, and a glinting grin. The other was his official Arkham patient photo, in which he was fully de-loused, scarred, and stripped of his clownish maquillage.

She picked up the first and stared at it for a long moment before her fingers slowly worked their way down her panties once more. This time, she issued a soft moan and shut her eyes. She rubbed against herself and slowly spread out across the sofa, picture still in hand. Her breathing increased and she moaned mellifluously, imagining his rough touch. She knew how to work herself, though she knew someone who knew how to do it better. So she imagined that man vividly planting hot kisses down her neck, down to the slope of her collarbone, moaning gruffly into her soft skin. Her fingers were his; rough, methodical and artistic. They knew to caress her faster, pressing harder against her clit. She whimpered loudly and arched her back just enough for the file to fall from her stomach. Its contents spilled out onto the floor, though she paid it no mind and issued a louder, more desperate moan. He was biting her neck now, nipping at her and smiling into her hammering pulse. She inserted a finger and gasped loudly as she slowly pumped in and out of herself, imagining him teasing her with deliberate, careful strokes. Her aching lips issued imploring whimpers, begging for speed and a crushing kiss. They worked faster, bringing her closer to a climax, before several hard swift pumps did the trick.

Her entire body shuddered as she orgasmed and she emitted a loud cry in sublime ecstasy. After a moment, clenched eyes and curled toes relaxed in blissful exhaustion, and a languorous, content smile formed at her lips.

"Oh Jack," she purred softly.

Immediately, her eyes flew open and she drank in her surroundings. Reality came crashing down hard and she ripped her hand out from her panties. The other fearfully let go of the photo it was holding and it fluttered onto the ground to rejoin the exploded contents of his patient file. She began to tremble as she pulled herself upright, and pleasured sighs quickly turned into frightful whimpers.

She glanced at the scattered contents of his file, at his grinning mugshot staring up at her, at the deep red color of her dress, and her cheeks quickly turned the same shade. Thoughts slammed through her head at an unprecedented rate and she quickly rose from the couch. She stalked off toward her bathroom, failing to flick on the lights, and crouched down at her toilet. Her luxurious dress pooled around her, and she immediately chucked up the contents of her very expensive meal with no discretion at all. She numbly hit the flush and stood once more to return to her living room.

Arriving back at her niche of shame, she scanned the floor and decided that she couldn't bring herself to clean her mess. Instead, she curled back into the couch and stared out into space, gripped by shock and her creeping insomnia. Cannibalistic memories and thoughts ate away at her brain, so after several more moments of daunting, masochistic silence she fumbled with the remote.

The television zapped on to a horror movie and she flipped through the channels in a zombified stupor before hesitantly stopping at GCN. There was a late-night expert panel featuring a criminologist and psychiatrist who were discussing both the topic and man that had earned a perpetual nighttime spot on each and every news outlet.

"_There are six types of crime_," a stout man with wiry glasses stated.

_"You have organized crime, white-collar crime, cybercrime, political crime, victimless crime, and then there's visible crime. Visible crime is the most unpredictable of the six. It is the most common, the most violent and it is entirely random. White-collar crime is predictable because it's essentially consigned to embezzlement and insider trading. Organized crime is predictable because it's heavily systematized and hierarchical. Yet visible crime is a complete dice game, ranging from larceny to murder. And this individual employed the concept of transparency to the fullest extent; we have self-made videos of him committing these atrocities. He basically embodies the meaning of visible crime. A prosecutor will have no problem compiling enough evidence to convict him."_

"_Yes, but is the Joker insane?" _the anchor asked.

"_That's the question that this entire nation has been asking. Can he get off on the insanity plea?"_

"_First of all, the insanity plea is extremely fickle,"_ the criminologist responded,_ "only 1% of the population even attempts it, and it's difficult to prove. Secondly, even if he were convicted of insanity, he would be institutionalized until a psychiatric facility deemed him legally sane. Yet the reality is that he would then most likely be institutionalized for double the amount of time than if he were incarcerated. There's no, quote, getting off the hook by plea of insanity."_

"_He would avoid the death penalty,"_ the psychiatrist, a woman, pointed out. "_I think it's clear that he exhibits multiple signs of failing mental heath."_

"_Now does failing mental health excuse culpability?"_ the anchor asked.

"_Yes, it voids _mens rea," the man nodded.

"_Dr. Stone could you clarify the meaning of _mens rea _for the audience?"_ the anchor gestured at him.

"_It means a guilty mind." It is, essentially, the intent to do harm."_

"_Right, an insanity ruling would insinuate that he lacks the mental capacity to account for his actions," _the woman nodded.

"_According to the Model Penal Code_,_ which holds jurisdiction in the district where he will be tried, a defense must provide a burden of proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Though my question is this: how can you secure this proof? Yes, he made videos. Yes, there are audio recordings. But I think that a defense team is going to have a difficult time proving a lack of cognitive capacity. The fact that he recorded all of his crimes indicates to me that he was entirely cognizant_. _He's psychotic but not oblivious."_

"_Though you are correct about the MPC, you are not qualified to make that statement, Dr. Stone. While Gotham County requires absolute burden of proof, it also requires _substantial_ capacity to appreciate criminality. That's a grey area. I don't think securing an insanity plea would be as difficult as you claim,"_ the psychiatrist countered.

"_A psychiatrist holds no legal judgment. Yes, he or she may give testimony or a professional opinion as a witness, but it is ultimately the jury's decision. Psychiatry will have no clout so long as a bloodthirsty public fuels our ambitious new DA."_

"_Excuse me_," the anchor interjected, "_but I'd like to discuss his mental state a bit further. What would have led him to commit such crimes?"_

"_It's simple_," she responded, "_it comes down to nurture versus nature. But that in itself is not simple to determine. Is he a victim of environmental circumstances or is he a born psychopath with a neurological chemical imbalance? Certainly a poor upbringing, plagued by parental abuse, drug use, et cetera, would exacerbate any innate psychopathy. Or even a dramatic or traumatic event could have triggered psychopathy. His… um… scars indicate that he has suffered from some severe trauma."_

"_Psychopathy is a very broad category," _the anchor commented, _"while we await a diagnosis from Arkham Asylum, where he is currently awaiting trial, do you have any speculation as to what type of mental illness he suffers from?"_

"_It's clear that he has a personality disorder," _the psychiatrist responded, "_anything from Cluster A or B from the American Psychiatric Association. Cluster A, characterized by odd behavior, entails paranoid, schizoid, and schizotypal personality disorder. Cluster B, characterized by dramatic behavior, consists of antisocial, borderline, histrionic, and narcissistic personality disorder… He certainly exhibits symptoms of sadistic personality disorder as well, and he very well could suffer from severe clinical depression. It's a very large pool of possibilities at this point." _

"Depression," Harley muttered to herself, "yeah right."

"_Because the reality is that we don't know enough about him. Has he ever had a personal relationship? Where does he come from? What was his upbringing like? There are so many holes. We can't even begin to narrow down the umbrella unless we understand more about who he was. If I have to throw a guess out there, it would be antisocial personality disorder, which is characterized by lack of empathy, impulsiveness, aggressiveness, and reckless disregard for the self and others. This type of person can also be very charismatic and manipulative, though the reality is that they are incapable of maintaining social relationships. They can begin them superficially but are unable to sustain them. They lack emotion… they lack a human essence. Yet there are so many other possibilities that are dependent on his history and genetic makeup. We simply… won't know until Arkham can produce a diagnosis during his trial."_

She muted the TV and sighed heavily.

"Idiots," she muttered.

She sleepily watched the screen segue into a lengthy montage of photographs and video clips from his reign of terror over Gotham. A condensed stream of fire, blood, greasepaint, and death flashed before her eyes and she suddenly yawned. His grinning face popped up onto the television, complete with greasepaint and a sadistic gleam in his black eyes. A gloved hand held a dripping, crimson knife and the other was gesturing a rusted crowbar at the screen, as if he were pointing directly into the home of every single Gothamite. She blinked drowsily, entirely unaffected, before she began to drift off. Before she knew it she had settled into a deep peaceful sleep, curled up on her untainted island, surrounded by a floor in disarray and awash in the dim glow of a visual medley of the man who laughs.

* * *

_Harley made her way through a musty dive bar situated on the East River's wharf. It was packed, mainly with depraved individuals looking for a quick buck or screw on a Saturday night in one of the worst neighborhoods in one of the worst cities in the nation. It reeked of cigarettes and shame, although the latter was most likely vomit. She'd finagled her way through the front door without an ID by way of her girlish (or was it womanly?) charm, yet she was completely alone. She'd sat in Mario's for nearly an hour, begging Tony to tell her where his oldest friend would be lurking on a Saturday if he wasn't at the diner. After a volley of nagging and pointless bickering, he eventually broke down and divulged the location._

_"Don't do anythin' fuckin' stupid," he'd warned her as she walked out the door._

_Now in the bar, she pushed her way through a throng of leering, predatory stares and swiveled her head to and fro, searching for anything that would belong to him; a black t-shirt, a bed of flyaway hair, an enormous grin, a pair of ratty Converse, a glass of whiskey._

_She scanned the vicinity, trying in vain to avoid any pinches or touches, before she spotted him at the bar._

_"Jack," she called out to him._

_The thick thumping of a bass pounded in her ears, and she could vaguely process the outline of his face in the dimly lit bar. He was slouched on a stool, sipping a nearly empty beer, and talking to a girl with sleek black hair. She was all wound up in a tight dress of the same color and smiling extra hard._

_"Jack," Harley repeated louder as she neared closer._

_He turned his head from the doting attention of the girl, yet when he drank in the blonde his mouth twisted into a caustic sneer._

_"What do you want?" he scowled._

_"I want you to talk to me," she crossed her arms confidently._

_Though she wasn't feeling very confident, and as she felt the curious stare of his companion, she suddenly felt very self-conscious. She too was wrapped up in a black dress – her work dress, as she'd just gotten off from the Lounge – and wondered, for some strange reason, if she looked all right._

_"No," he spat._

_"I'm sorry," she sighed._

_He blinked dully at her and the girl beside him continued to stare at her. She had a pretty face, an intimidatingly pretty face, and Harley suddenly wanted to know what they had been talking about._

_"Alright," she declared, "I'm not going to do this here. Come with me."_

_She clasped onto his wrist and tugged hard. He spilled off the stool before straightening himself out._

_"I'll bring him back," she rolled her eyes at the baffled girl before tugging him along behind her._

_He stumbled along, half-irritated and half-amused, before she dragged him into the women's restroom. A girl applying lipstick spun around to squeal before her face twisted into that of repulsion._

_"Don't flatter yourself, princess," he snorted with a grin._

_She glowered at him and hastily picked up her purse before huffing out the door, leaving the two alone. His facetious smirk distorted back into a sneer as he scathingly glanced at Harley._

_"I'm sorry about everything, okay?" she turned to him. "I only spoke on your behalf because I couldn't stand to see him talk down to you like that anymore."_

_"It's _none_ of your business," he snapped._

_"I know," she sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just… Roger talks like that to my mom. And she doesn't know how to defend herself. I'm not… I'm not saying that you don't know how. I know that you choose to ignore it. But she can't do it. And so I've always had to do it. I was always yapping back at him. For her. It's like my damn mouth moves faster than my mind does. It's always getting me into trouble. And trust me, I've definitely received my fair share of repercussions because of it. I also know what it's like to get slapped around for being a smartass. But at this point, it's just an instinct for me to spout off. So… it was completely impulsive and reactionary. I'm really sorry, Jack. I really am. It wasn't my place to say anything, especially on your behalf."_

_She blinked up at him with apologetic doe eyes and he pulled his sneer into a taut, serious line._

_"I don't need your help," he issued coolly._

_"You're right. You don't," she nodded, "but I just wanted to let you know that me and my stupid mouth are sorry."_

_He stared at her for a long, silent moment before sighing heavily._

_"I'd advise you to learn to keep your damn mouth shut then," he conceded._

_Her large eyes lit up, shedding any trace of puppy-eyed dejection._

_"Okay. I'll work on it," she beamed brightly at him._

_She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tightly, pressing her head against his collarbone. He instinctively tensed and stared down at her. Her eyes were closed and a small, content smile protruded from her lips. She gave him a single squeeze, but as he moved a hand to place around her shoulders, she'd already pulled away._

_"I meant it, you know," she gazed up at him earnestly._

_"Meant what?" he blinked._

_"When I said that you're my best friend," she smiled fondly._

_"Yeah, I know," he said quietly._

_"Good," she beamed and buried herself into his tall frame for another quick hug._

_She released him just as swiftly, far faster than his brain could process, assess, and reciprocate the gesture._

_"Okay let's go get fucked up," she announced._

_"I have some blow if you're down," he smirked._

_She shrugged with a smile, suddenly giddy and grateful to have been accepted back into his good graces. He tapped her petite button nose playfully before turning to kick a stall door open. Harley giggled and skipped into the stall with him before he reached out to lock it. They were surrounded by endless bar graffiti, chock full of expletives, confessions and mindless yet mindful quotes. She glanced around at the vandalism, at all the declarations of love and heartbreak, at all the people shaming, at all the shitty misquotes from Che Guevara and Gandhi, and smiled. Not only did these stalls serve as the original anonymous forum, but they were also a testament to the human condition._

_While she was admiring the handiwork of hundreds of others, he leaned against one partition and fished a baggie filled with white powder from the deep pocket of his slacks. She noticed and also leaned against the opposite partition, though the intimate space only left about a foot of space between the two._

_"Give me your keys," he demanded, hand outstretched._

_She fished around in her red peacoat before slapping her apartment keys into his open palm. He shook the baggie, eyeballing its consistency, before he opened it and scooped out an amply large key bump._

_"You want it?" he glanced up at her._

_"That's way too much for me," she shook her head._

_He shrugged and raised the key up to his nostril before snorting the entirety of its contents. His head snapped back, eyes stinging with water, before he inhaled sharply._

_"Damn," he sniffed loudly before his head lolled back into place._

_He offered her the baggie and she glanced at it before blushing slightly._

_"I don't really know what to do," she confessed._

_"Jesus," he hocked out a sharp laugh, "you want me to hold your hand too?"_

_He scooped out a smaller bump and thrust the key underneath her nose._

_"Snort it," he demanded._

_She blinked at the unconventional line before awkwardly pressing her fingertip against a nostril and snorting the majority of the contents. Her eyes immediately pricked and she crinkled her nose, sniffing frantically. He grinned at her and her head filled with a thick rush as she watched him dole out another bump._

_The two repeated this exchange for several more minutes until they were sufficiently jacked up. He resealed the baggie and shoved it into his slacks before turning to leave._

_"No, wait," she placed a hand against his chest, stopping him._

_"Do you have a pen?" she blinked._

_"No," he sniggered._

_She rummaged around in her peacoat once more and brandished a ballpoint pen. She beamed victoriously at him._

_"See," she declared, uncapping it, "school can come in handy."_

_He couldn't hide the smile that she'd evoked from him._

_"I've been staring at this stupid thing for like five minutes now," she shook her head and began scratching out a crudely drawn swastika on the partition._

_"I take it your parents are Jewish," he nodded, watching her._

_"Well, my mom, yeah," she shrugged, glancing back at him. "But my dad was Irish Catholic."_

_She finished scribbling out the offensive symbol and recapped the pen._

_"Except he had convinced my bubbe that he was half-Jewish," she added with a laugh._

_He started chuckling liberally and she quickly joined him._

_"Isn't that hilarious?" she giggled. "When he first started dating my mom he would keep kosher in front of her family and observe all the holidays. He even bought a Star of David pendant that he switched off with his cross. Then they had a traditional Jewish wedding complete with the breaking of the glass and the works. And then he would go to Sunday mass and live his normal life as a Catholic, as if he lived this fake Jewish life on the side."_

_"So were you baptized or bat mitzvahed?" he asked amusedly._

_"Neither," she shrugged._

_"Why?" he glanced at her._

_"I guess they didn't want that imposed on me at such a young age. They let me choose when I got older," she admitted thoughtfully._

_"And what did you choose?" he asked quietly._

_"Nothing," she said after a moment._

_He glanced at her pointedly before snatching the pen from her hand._

_"Good," he nodded._

_She blinked at him and watched him uncap the utensil before he started scratching out several sloppy letters on the partition with an awkwardly curled left hand._

_"Your handwriting is terrible," she giggled._

_He looked back at her and smirked darkly._

_"They tried beating it out of me in Catholic school."_

_His left hand clumsily, almost unnaturally, continued to scribble out a phrase. She stared at him for a long moment and wondered if he also felt the ostensible silence._

_"Why?" she asked incredulously._

_He stopped writing to turn to meet her shocked expression._

_"The left hand is the hand of Satan," he grinned ominously, "it's considered the mark of evil."_

_"And every time you wrote - "_

_He loudly slapped the back of his hand against his open palm and she flinched at the crass noise._

_"They can't do that," she stared at him._

_He snorted and rolled his eyes before turning back to face the partition._

_"I once got smacked in the head with the Bible so badly that I was concussed for weeks," he divulged before he began cackling hysterically._

_His loud, screeching laughter resounded loudly within in the stall and her head began to pound._

_"That's not funny," she frowned._

_"Yes it is," he corrected through a laugh, "religion is hilarious."_

_He capped the pen and stuck it in her coat before exiting the stall. She glanced at his graffiti addition; he had sloppily scrawled "_Why So Serious?_" and pointed arrows at every single quote about heartbreak and love and shame._

_He was mocking the human condition._

_She quickly followed him and they exited the bathroom together. Harley smiled to herself and skipped over to the bar, at which she slid onto a stool and waved at the bartender. Her companion languidly joined her and the two ended up ordering their drinks. He told her a moderately funny joke about a blonde at a bar before he turned around in his seat. She stopped laughing to glance at just what caught his attention, to discover that the black-haired girl from earlier had tapped him on the shoulder._

_"There you are," she grinned brightly at him._

_Harley watched her lean in to whisper something in his ear, and as the girl pulled back, Jack was staring at her with a sparkle of interest in his glazed eyes. She grabbed his hand and dragged him off the stool._

_"I'll bring him back," she recycled the words before smiling coldly at Harley._

_Jack started laughing hysterically, basking in the attention, before the girl tugged him through the dim, musty haze of the bar. She stared at them in disbelief; jaw slightly unhinged, before a hot voice purred in her ear._

_"Looks like your boyfriend is busy," the voice teased._

_She turned to meet the intoxicated grin of a reasonably younger man, probably a college student who wound up in the wrong part of town._

_"He's not my boyfriend," she rolled her eyes in exasperation._

_"So does that mean I can buy you a drink?" his own lit up._

_"Does it?" she raised her eyebrows apathetically._

_"What's your name?" he pressed, leaning toward her._

_"Why do you want to know?" she sighed, suddenly feeling very, very irritated._

_"Because," he grinned, "I have an open tab with your name written all over it."_

_She snorted and shook her head._

_"Nice line. If you buy me a shot I'll let you try again."_

_Almost an hour had passed and Harley was still at the bar with Whatshisname, listening to him blabbering on about political science or whatever major he was at Gotham University. The plus side was that he was serious about the open tab, and as she was working on her fourth drink while blocking out his inane chatter, she finally spotted Jack and his mystery girl. They were sitting at a table in one of the corners, speaking with their faces very close to the other._

_"You want something else to drink?" the kid leaned into her._

_She looked at him for the first time in about half an hour and he was gazing at her with intoxicated lust in his green eyes._

_"Yeah, actually," she nodded._

_"Cool. Whatcha want?" he beamed._

_"Anything above 80 proof," she smiled sweetly._

_"Hey," he waved at the bartender, who miraculously turned to him as opposed to the hundred of others fighting for his attention._

_"Can I get two double shots of your strongest shit?" her suitor slurred._

_The bartender shrugged and began preparing two tall shot glasses full of clear liquid. Vodka perhaps. Or Everclear. She didn't really care which._

_He set them down in front of the two._

_"Tab?" he asked the kid monotonously and immediately left once he got a responsive nod._

_"Thanks," she winked at Whatshisname and he responded with a messy, elated grin._

_She turned around, hoping to catch another glimpse of Jack and his mystery girl. Fate would have it that she turned just in time to watch the girl pull his face in for a kiss and Harley immediately had to swallow down the thick lump forming in her throat. She quickly swiveled around on the stool and saliva was not enough to budge the lump, so she washed it down with her shot. It burned through her throat and she made a disgusted face before she quickly grabbed and downed the second shot. She swallowed heavily and sighed, attempting to shake off the several bad tastes in her mouth._

_"Hey, that's mine," her suitor whined._

_She turned to him, eyeing his increasingly blurring face._

_"I'll let you makeout with me now," she shrugged casually._

_His face lit up and he leaned in to sloppily kiss her. She kissed him back, and after a moment of swapping alcoholic saliva, she pulled away._

_"You know, my roommate's out for the night…" he began._

_"And?" she rolled her eyes._

_"We could kick it back to my place," he attempted._

_"I'm good," she issued._

_He pouted sadly but quickly recovered, and segued into talking about the electoral voting system or something like that for a terribly long time. At some point, he switched the topic to his summer internship and droned on about how much nicer Metropolis is than Gotham until her vision began to spin violently._

_"I'll be right back," she slurred before issuing a slapdash smile._

_"Okay," he grinned hopefully._

_She slid off the stool and had to steady herself against the bar. After a moment of severe disorientation she stumbled her way through the thick crowd, over to the bathroom, and fell through the door. As she landed against the grimy tiles, she pulled herself into a crawling position and scuttled her way into a stall. Once inside, she leaned against the partition, pulling her knees to her chest and closing her dizzied eyes. Her head swam with thick, distorted thoughts and after a moment, she dozed off._

_An unmarked amount of time slogged by before a familiar voice penetrated her drunken half-sleep._

_"Harrrrrrr…ley," he crooned in singsong, "I know you're in here."_

_He kicked the stall door open and it thwacked loudly against her side. She immediately jolted awake and her eyes flew open._

_"Ow," she whined, glancing up at him._

_"What's up, kiddo?" he grinned madly._

_She stared at him for a moment before she registered just who was before her._

_"Go away," she finally muttered and buried her head into her knees._

_"Did you puke?" he teased._

_She hiccupped violently before shaking her head._

_"Mmmmm… someone had too much to drink," he goaded, nudging her leg with his foot._

_"Go away," she moaned loudly._

_"Do you plan on crashing here for the night?" he grinned mockingly._

_She raised her head and hiccupped again before she narrowed her eyes._

_"Where's that slut you were with?" she slurred._

_"Where's that idiot you were with?" he retorted, rolling his eyes._

_"I asked you first," she scowled, "stupid, stupid skank. With her stupid dress and her stupid hair and her stupid face."_

_She closed her eyes and lolled her head back and forth, each word becoming increasingly garbled._

_"Are you done?" he raised an eyebrow._

_"And I bet you fucked her in here," she snapped and burning eyes flew open._

_"And caught all kinds of shit from that," she paused to hiccup, "skank."_

_"Okay, Cinderella. The ball's over," he sighed._

_"Go find your stupid skank," she snarled, "go home with her."_

_"You know, I would if I didn't have to take your drunk ass home first," he snapped._

_"I'll get home," she waved her hand and eventually clutched the edge of the toilet seat._

_She lifted herself up onto her two feet, but her knees buckled and she fell back down with a crash._

_"Oh you're so convincing," he cackled loudly._

_"Stop laughing at me," she shouted, attempting to scramble into an upright position._

_Her face suddenly paled and she stuck her face into the toilet bowl. She began dry heaving, though to her relief, her stomach maintained itself._

_"Oooookay," he crooned, "I think that's enough."_

_Nearly fifteen minutes later, after convincing a cabbie that "no, seriously, she won't boot into the backseat" and chucking a crumpled ten-dollar bill at the man, Jack and Harley had arrived at her building. She'd stumbled out of the car door and nearly fell flat on her face before he caught her by the arm and jerked her upright. She glanced up at him and laughed hysterically before he slammed the door shut and supported her all the way into the building's elevator._

_He fished around for her keys in her coat pocket, until he remembered that he still had them from earlier. Rather, he dipped into his own pocket before inserting them into the elevator panel and pressing the button for the fourth floor. She was leaning heavily into his chest, eyes closed. He supported her with a single arm wrapped around her shoulders, and for four flights, he listened to her heavy, thick breathing. She reeked of liquor and baby powder and he couldn't decide if that was irritating or, in some inexplicable way, soothing._

_After a moment, the narrow doors opened. As they arrived on her floor, she staggered alongside him, underneath his steadying grip, before he used the keys again to access her apartment. It was pitch black when he opened the door, though he suddenly felt her stir underneath his stable arm._

_"Jack?" she slurred into his collarbone._

_He clasped his hand over her mouth, and though he couldn't distinguish her petite outline in the darkness, he felt her tense._

_"Shut up, Harley," he hissed into her face._

_She obeyed, and he instinctively led her into the bathroom before shutting the door. He flicked on the lights, blinding her, and she blinked in confusion for several seconds before he shoved her into the bathtub. She tumbled into it like a useless ragdoll, and as she crashed hard against the porcelain, she swiveled her head at him in bewilderment. Before she could open her mouth to speak, he had turned on the showerhead and cold, sobering water rained down on her._

_"Are you done now?" he asked quietly._

_She stared at him with large, perplexed eyes and her mascara immediately began to run. He watched her begin to shiver violently and as she pulled her knees up to her chest, she grasped her shoulders._

_"Yeah," she croaked with a nod._

_After a second, she laid her cheek down onto the cool edge of the bathtub and began to hiccup again. She clasped a hand over her mouth in an attempt to stifle the violent hitches, and her blackened eyes clenched in pained frustration. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before eyeing a mug at the sink. He picked it up and assessed it blithely; it read World's Best Daughter, and with a smirk, he held it underneath the showerhead for several moments._

_She was whimpering against the icy porcelain and he nudged her streaked cheek with the filled mug. Her bleary eyes opened and she dubiously blinked at the object._

_"Drink it," he commanded._

_She glanced up at him before precariously taking it and lifting her head to take a single, tiny sip._

_"More," he ordered._

_She furrowed her brow and took a small gulp._

_"More."_

_She chugged half the mug before she had a severe hiccup and had to set it down._

_"I can't," she whined loudly._

_"Yes you can," he derided._

_"Fuck you and your orders," she slurred angrily and chucked the mug at his feet._

_It shattered loudly against the tiled floor and he glanced at her pointedly._

_"I thought you were done," he sneered._

_"I am," she muddled the words._

_She turned to shut off the showerhead and shakily stood on her own. She was drenched in water, running makeup smearing her round cheeks and she attempted to wring out her sopping hair._

_"Thank you. Please don't hate me," she hiccupped loudly._

_He rolled his eyes and sighed._

_"Bedtime. Now," he directed._

_"Yes sir," she giggled spiritedly and saluted him._

_They entered her pitch-black room and his hand searched for a switch on the wall. He found nothing before he heard her giggling quietly. She tugged at his shirt and he followed her, stumbling over object after object, until she flicked on the lamp next to her bed. He glanced around at her room; a domain he had not seen before._

_It was disastrously untidy. A massive pile of clothes sat in the middle of the room in addition to a sea of heels, flats, boots and sneakers that had been chucked carelessly onto the floor. Several magazines were scattered about, ranging from Cosmo to Vice to Spin. Her walls were mostly bare, except for several crooked band posters and the state flag of New York hanging from her door. Other than the red and black bed, the only other piece of furniture in the room was a small bureau, on top of which sat a pile of cosmetics and gymnastics trophies._

_He watched her stumble her way over to the mountain of clothing and pluck out a random blue shirt. She sniffed it conspicuously before raising her head to blink at him with inebriated eyes._

_"Turn around," she demanded._

_He gawked at her for a moment before he tentatively obeyed; something he rarely ever did with her, or anyone for that matter. He turned and awkwardly stared at his shoes, listening to wet clothing slapping the floor._

_"Okay," she finally declared after a moment._

_He turned and glanced up at her to find her in a faded gymnastics t-shirt and a pair of black underwear. She scurried over to her bed and crawled under the red and black duvet before peeping her blonde head out from underneath the sea of fabric. A content, sleepy smile formed at her lips and she blinked languidly at him._

_"Jack," she yawned sleepily._

_He raised his eyebrows expectantly._

_"Come here," she slurred into her pillow._

_"No," he issued._

_"Please?" she whined. "Please? Please, please, please, please, please – "_

_"Jesus Christ," he snapped, taking a step forward._

_"What do you want?" he muttered, peering down at her._

_"Stay here," she begged up at him with dopey, kohl-stained eyes, "stay with me."_

_"No," he shook his head._

_"Why not?" she pouted._

_"Just no," he stated flatly._

_"Oh right, you have to go see your skank now," she snapped._

_"Go to sleep," he sneered._

_She huffed and flipped over, away from him._

_He blinked at her, suddenly feeling very, very exhausted. She was exhausting. An exhausting hot mess. An exhausting, idiotic, brass hot mess. He wished, at that very moment, that he'd never met her. He thought about slapping some sense, or sobriety, into her, but he wanted to know something first._

_He threw off her covers and pounced on top of her. He straddled her hips and began tickling her sides. She shrieked in startled laughter and he covered her mouth, stifling her tinny giggles. As he continued kneading the soft flesh of her hip, she writhed underneath him, laughing liberally against his hand. She clawed at him, until her fingers dug into his ribs. He jerked up and emitted an involuntary cackle before losing his balance and collapsing on top of her. His face now hovered inches from hers and both of them were panting heavily. Her fingers poised defensively against the ridge of a rib, and he, in equal collateral, had his hand curled around her hip. They locked eyes for a long moment, his exhausted brown matched to her feverish blue, before he reached the other hand up to run his thumb across her bottom lip._

_"You like me, don't you?" he asked quietly._

_She blushed deeply and shook her head._

_"No. You're my best friend," she attempted._

_His mouth curled into his proverbial smirk._

_"So you get jealous when your friends are with other girls?" he teased._

_"I wasn't jealous," she lied._

_"Oh no?" he cooed, and his fingertips gently curled around her chin._

_Every hair on the back of her neck was at standstill._

_"We're completely platonic," she breathed._

_"Yeah?" he murmured, his breath tickling her lips._

_His hand slowly moved from her hip to graze her flat stomach and she exhaled shakily._

_"Yeah," she whispered with lidded eyes._

_He lowered his face just a fraction and the tips of their noses brushed. She parted her lips achingly and as he stared into her suppliant eyes, one of her hands had slowly latched onto his bed of hair. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears and he tilted her chin up slightly. His dark eyes carefully drank in her features before locking heatedly on her lips. She closed her own in shivering anticipation; how would his lips feel against hers? Rough and assertive? Soft and indulgent?_

_Yet as he planted a single, warm kiss on her jawline, she whimpered._

_"Goodnight Harley," he purred into her jaw, "my silly, silly friend."_

_He felt her tremble underneath him and he smiled into her burning skin. Before she could respond, he had already slid off her bed._

_"Jack," she called out to him, propping herself up on her elbows._

_Her face, masked in utter bewilderment, had a healthy red flush staining her cheeks. He winked at her, and the last thing she saw was his glowing smirk before he flicked off her lamp, though she could have sworn she saw it lingering in the dark, even far after he had left her room._

* * *

__Please try to leave a review if you can! I want to know if people like where this story is going. Shmanks.


	7. Meet Me In the Bathroom

Normal font = present, italics = past (10 years ago)

DC owns everything.

* * *

Yeah, we were just two friends in lust  
And baby, that just don't mean much  
You trained me not to love  
After you showed me what it was  
-_Meet Me in the Bathroom,_ The Strokes

"Harleen. How are you?" Jeremiah Arkham purred through a venomous smile.

"Fine," she attempted to strain one of her own.

"Any exciting plans for this weekend?" he inquired casually as he leaned back in his chair.

"No," she shook her head.

The thought of doing anything productive for the next two days was daunting, as she just planned on falling asleep that night and waking up Sunday afternoon. It'd been an exhausting week, what with her indiscretion on Monday, his own pseudo-meltdown on Wednesday and Thursday night's strange and inexplicable events.

"The reason I ask is because you've been working far too hard. You look like shit, Harleen. When was the last time you slept?" he frowned.

She ducked her head, hoping to evade his acerbic gaze. It was true: her youthful face ordinarily managed to exude a radiant charm, but as of late, it glowed dimly with the dull fatigue of a woman who had seen and heard far too much.

"I'm afraid that you're not cut out for this," he crossed his arms.

"Didn't you already know that when you assigned me to this case?" she asked dryly, lifting to head to peer into his beady eyes.

He rolled them and waved his hand blithely, dismissing her comment.

"Now, I know you've only had two sessions since we last spoke on Monday, but I need to know if you've _learned_ anything from him. We're running out of time. His trial is scheduled to occur six weeks from now and don't tell me you've wasted two whole weeks already," he issued angrily.

Since the Joker's initial arrest three weeks ago, his case was quickly becoming one of the most high profile the city had ever had to handle. It was moving through the system faster than the eye could blink, and had even managed to take precedence over other celebrity cases. Many agreed that it had already reached an iconic platform and would shape up to be one of the most heavily analyzed criminal cases that Gotham, and the entire nation, had ever seen. The national media had even given it a perpetual slot on the nightly news, on an endless rotation of interviews with expert criminologists, psychiatrists and academic scholars. It had also sparked several national debates, ranging from mental health to domestic terrorism. As well, the media hawked the case, hoping to pull any information out regarding public enemy number one; reporters camped outside the Asylum gates, the Police Headquarters and the new District Attorney's office at any given hour. The public was split: half wanted him dead in a Blackgate electric chair and the other half wanted him in solitary confinement at Arkham. This, of course, did not account for the opinions of the criminal underworld.

From the time he was arrested and booked in mid-September, he had been securely transported to his initial court appearance the following day after spending a night in County. After being advised of his charges and rights, he, of course, was not eligible for bail, and was immediately whisked off to the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane where he was placed in a maximum-security cell. He underwent a seven-day transition period, wherein he was neither assigned a psychiatrist nor received psychiatric care. On his third day of transition, he was plucked out for a preliminary hearing, in which it was determined that there was enough evidence to support the charges against him. The following day, he was placed in front of a judge and the District Attorney. At his arraignment, the judge considered him to be indigent (perhaps because he had a tendency to burn his material wealth) and assigned him a Public Defender while the DA officially charged him with a laundry list of felonies, which included everything from aggravated assault to possession of a weapon of mass destruction. When asked how he plead, he stood mute, thus automatically placing a not guilty plea. Both the Joker and the ambitious new DA refused to bargain a plea deal. The former was too apathetic and the latter didn't even want to hear the defendant's voice; as a Gotham public servant who was the successor to Harvey Dent, he wanted a trial. The judge determined the case to be trial sufficient, no plea was made, and a date was scheduled. A number of cases were pushed back in the backlogged system to ultimately settle for a two-month waiting period for two reasons. First, it is a crime truism that the longer a case sits in the system, it is only to the increasing benefit of the defense and the DA was _not_ looking for miracle. Second, according to both the judge and his defense, this time frame would allow for Arkham Asylum to make a preliminary assessment on his mental state. It was a judicial compromise in every way: the dogged prosecutorial side would attempt to fry him as quickly as possible and the defense team would receive a slot of time to wait and hope for an insanity diagnosis.

Yet the poor Public Defender assigned to represent him hardly compared to his legal opposition. He'd earned decent grades at a middle-tier law school and had applied for a PD position to gain some experience such that he could eventually run his own private firm. He'd enjoyed two years on the bar before the system flung one of the hottest cases of the century into his lap. This, of course, was no accident. It was intentional and political and just about anything but accidental. Additionally, he became publicly scorned, despite the fact that he would have rather defended anyone else in the world than the towering man with the Glasgow grin (who, by the way, nearly made him faint when he briefly visited him at Arkham). The bloodthirsty public wanted a successful conviction, and it only made sense for them to disparage the man whose entire salary was funded by their taxpayer dollars and who was also potentially the barrier between the Joker and the death penalty.

Conversely, the new DA was far more experienced. His glowing resume indicated that he possessed an Ivy League pedigree and excelled through Columbia and eventually Yale Law. He'd also recently put the Maroni family consigliore behind bars who had somehow slipped through Harvey Dent's successful RICO conviction, further earning him the adoration of a public so recently deprived of justice. Yet the disparity in legal competency and public approval didn't end there. Ironically, and unbeknownst to the general public, Jeremiah Arkham had assigned the Joker a certain psychiatrist based on the latter's resolute demand.

"Look, Dr. Arkham – " that same psychiatrist sighed.

"Now, state jurisdiction demands that we provide a Substantial Capacity Test under the MPC to determine insanity," her superior drummed his fingers impatiently.

"I know that – "

"_Lacks substantial capacity to appreciate the wrongfulness of his conduct or to control it_," he read off his clipboard.

"Capacity, my dear. That is the key word," he snapped his head up to stare at her.

She blinked in silence as he continued.

"Does he possess the capacity to appreciate wrongfulness? Does he not? Do _you_ possess the capacity to assess this? No. No, you don't," he jabbed his finger at her.

"And whose idea was it to assign an intern to such a high profile case?" she countered.

"Hedemanded you. I don't know why, Harleen, but _he_ demanded _you_! The man wouldn't speak, or even open his mouth for that matter, unless it was to ask for you. It only made sense to give him what he wanted. And I thought… I really thought that maybe you could have done something with this. When I saw you defend your thesis, I thought you were cutting edge. You were just the kind of fresh-faced, optimistic bundle of energy that we needed for this place. Sadly, you're just another disappointment in a long list of them. This was your chance to prove to me - to _everyone_ - that you could have been something."

He shook his head and sighed grumpily.

"Well, that's no matter," he scoffed, "after today I'm taking you off the case."

She knew that she'd been a political pawn from the start, but two sleepless weeks had somehow whirred by in a flash. It was clear to her that Jeremiah Arkham was squirming as well. He needed the Joker to stay in his institution to advance his political aspirations, but how could that ever happen if a pseudo-competent PD and an equally inexperienced psychiatrist were set to square off against a hardnosed and popular DA?

Yet while she knew all of this, a heavy knot formed in her stomach and she suddenly felt uneasy.

"No, you can't. He's my patient," she pleaded.

"Harleen –"

"He's _my_ patient," she suddenly snapped with incensed rage.

"And this is _my_ institution," he rebuked in a roar and she slammed her mouth shut.

"Now you need to remember your place, Harleen. After today's session he is no longer yours to treat," he seethed.

She swallowed heavily and shut her eyes, though she could continue to feel his caustic fury stinging at her.

"And were you not previously _begging_ me to take you off the case?" he further sneered.

"Am I fired?" she murmured after a moment and reopened her exhausted eyes.

"No," he laughed his haughty, pompous laugh.

"Heavens no!" he chuckled hard, "you'll be reassigned to a case that's more in your… realm of capability. Perhaps a nonviolent patient."

He issued a mordant smile and she nodded numbly.

"Now get the hell out of my office before I change my mind. Though remember, my dear, there's always Park Row."

As per routine, her patient had been delivered to her in a swift, if not irritable, motion by the three same Arkham guards. After exchanging waves and hearing the door shut, she glanced at the man on her chaise nervously, though was thankful once again for the white straightjacket that constrained his entire upper body. She scanned his face for any signs of anger or aggression as memories of him slamming against her desk during the previous session flashed through her mind. He blinked at her indifferently, his visage entirely blank, and she internally remarked on his incredible ability to reset after an outburst. Though she didn't know what to say, and so they sat in silence for several moments.

She periodically assessed his face, which was looking remarkably better than it had during their second session. Though he was clearly still exhibiting signs of withdrawal, it was apparent that he was on a shaky road to recovery. Yet while his face, which was no longer ashen, was improving, his mental dependence on substances was not. His increased irritability and mood swings were the two most poignant symptoms, though she wondered if the withdrawal was affecting any mental failing he may have, such as schizophrenic tendencies or paranoia. Though she highly doubted him to be paranoid in any capacity. His confidence, which teetered on a narcissistic realm, would have shattered any trace of a paranoid trait by now.

"Now, is your desk wired to the floor?" he suddenly asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"Pardon?" she blinked, snapping out of her own head.

"At bank teller windows, one has to intentionally lift a floor lever with her toe to alert security. Ah, but _you_ just get to smash a button underneath your desk to summon the boys in blue," he grinned haughtily.

"Of course you would know that," she sighed and pursed her lips.

"Not personally, no," he scoffed, "only schmucks rob teller windows."

"And why is that?" she asked quietly.

"It's amateur in every way. First… any given cashier has _maybe_ a grand in it. Secondly, they will almost always drop a dye pack into your bag, and then you're really asking to get… caugh_**t**_. And finally, it's a wonderful place to have your photo taken. So while you're milling around, waiting for Lisa to hand you lunch money, you're pissing in your own grave," he began chuckling loudly.

"I see," she mumbled.

The silence resumed, despite his abnormal attempt at small talk. Normally, it was Harley constantly having to blather on before she pulled anything substantial out of him. She would have jumped at any opportunity to listen to him discuss anything criminal, but she wasn't in the mood today. Of course, this was something that he noticed.

"Why aren't you talking my ear off with questions?" he finally tilted his head.

"After today I'm no longer your psychiatrist," she said numbly.

"Wha_**t**_?" he spat and an intense flicker of emotion flashed across his face.

"That's right," she nodded, "Arkham took me off your case. You're now free to terrorize someone else."

He narrowed his eyes.

"I don't wan_**t**_ another shrink," he sneered.

"That's not up to you," she muttered.

"And it would appear that it was not up to you either," he retorted.

She ducked her head shamefully and attempted to brace herself for the next round of acidic comments. Though she knew that anything Jeremiah Arkham ever said to her would have paled pathetically in comparison to one of the Joker's _compliments_.

"How's it feel to be _such_ a disappointment?" he issued a mock pout.

She bore her gaze into her empty notepad and bit her lip hard.

"I always knew that you'd end up doing something so laughable as entering the human services," he continued with a sneer.

"_Harleen_, embarking on a noble crusade of compassion to help the downtrodden with her bleeding heart and exuberant optimism, only to be knocked down by political self-interests and bureaucratic chess _games_. Though, it's entirely your faul_**t**_… for entering a field… so _marred_ by irrationality," he smirked.

"What do you mean?" she furrowed her brow and lifted her head to meet his dark gaze.

"Everything about your work evokes deeply imbedded symbolism for religious zeal. You push for the enforcement of societal… norms… and the status quo. You seek to aid the downtrodden, the deviant, and the mentally defective through a form of _healing_. The… normative… Catholic tradition is to treat society's outcasts with compassion and love. You don't seek punitive measures for deviance, but rather, you feel a moral obligation to form a _relationship_ with the disadvantaged. You're on a mission to help people, to heal people, to understand people. So while you spent all those years securing yourself a scientific degree, you're really subjecting yourself to a career driven by ancient religious underpinnings of sentimentality. You want to give to people, spiritual alms if you will, and that's because your empathy is _biblical_. Your career is driven by a personal desire to help others, which is ultimately driven by compassion. And yet compassion, like love, or heroism, or benevolence, is utterly… irrational."

"I disagree," she shook her head.

"That's because you're _trained_ to disagree. It's already wired into your subconscious, so don't even bother. From the minute you were born society told you right from wrong. Anyone who acts outside of the status quo is considered deviant. Now these deviants, who remember, are resistant to societal norms, are immediately labeled as _dysfunctional_. It only worsens from there. Most are slapped with a personality disorder… Antisocial…. Borderline…. Take your pick. And that's because you're trained to hand out these diagnoses. You're trained to think in this socially obedient _paradigm_. If I told you I wasn't crazy, would you believe me?"

She averted his gaze once more and furrowed her brow in ruminating thought. Yet just as her thoughts began to steer toward - was it comprehension? - she shook her head.

"Are you going to impart your drabbling monologues onto your next psychiatrist?" she pursed her lips and met his coal eyes.

"Oh no, I only save those for when I see my little pet!" he grinned widely, which per usual, engulfed the bottom half of his face.

"Excuse me?" her eyebrows shot up.

"I didn't come here to listen to some white-collared sap who can't tell his left from right drone on all day about psychobabble," he rolled his eyes.

"You didn't come here on your own accord," she reminded him.

"Do you think I just got _caught_?" he cackled, "that I got nabbed by big old Batsy and got thrown in here to languish for my deeds? Oh no, I'm not that sloppy at all. No. You see, a little birdie told me that a certain new intern was causing _quite_ a buzz at Arkham. You can hide behind that lab coat of yours all you want, baby, but you're certainly better to look at than the rest of the eunuchs this place employs. You see, I _wanted_ to come to Arkham," he snickered and his grin grew even larger.

"Why?" murmured fearfully.

"Because it got boring out there! I needed a vacation, and where better to do that than at Arkham with my favorite toy? Oh sure, you still need some dusting and refinement, but you've been _very_ fun so far. And really, it's not _so_ bad here – I'm considering making this my second ha-," he giggled, "hacienda."

"I'm not a toy," she snapped.

"You're mine," he said simply, "you always have been. You always will be. And don't doubt me when I say that I'm very, _very_ possessive."

"You came here on purpose? I thought you were a man without a plan," she narrowed her eyes.

"You'll never know, will you?" he smirked.

"Just when you think I have a plan… I don'_**t**_. Just when you think I don't have a plan… I _do_. I love to keep 'em guessing, sugar. That's what the Joker does… that's _why_… the Joker… is the wild card."

She stared at him for a long moment before she cleared her throat.

"You said there are two Jokers in a deck. Is that why you came here? To mold me into what you are?" she asked quietly.

"You don't need molding, dollface, just a bit of tweaking. But don't worry, Daddy will have his Harley fine-tuned and running in no time," he scarred smile grew.

"Stop calling yourself that," she sighed and rubbed at her temples.

"Says the girl with Daddy issues," he shrugged casually.

She gritted her teeth together and had to exhale shakily, though he couldn't miss the flicker of rage that danced through her light eyes.

"C'mon, why don't you throw your shoe at me again?" he goaded with dark glee dancing in his own murky eyes.

"Let's see what else you can do. We both know that the range of your emotional spectrum spans _much_ further than what you've been displaying thus far. Much, much, much, much, much farther," he grinned ominously.

She exhaled once and rigidly composed herself.

"I was a very volatile teenager, as most are," she said simply.

He shook his head vigorously.

"No. No, no, no, no, no. _No_. I never knew what I was going to get with you - not that I'm complaining though. You were a fun little box of emotional instability," he started to giggle.

"As one would experience with most teenagers," she countered.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, cupcake. Though it doesn't seem like you've been sleeping much these days. Perhaps your insomnia is encroaching upon your ability to accurately assess matters around you, particularly the state of your own _self_. How _is_ your pea-sized noggin faring against all of the stress?"

"I'm not stupid," she scowled, "and you know that."

"You're not… _un_intelligent but there are sharper crayons in the box," he rolled his eyes.

"I'm smart," she retorted.

"You're brash," he snapped, "you're reckless and impetuous and hotheaded and you never know when to shut… the… fuck… up."

"I _was_ that way," she corrected.

He snorted and rolled his eyes once more.

"Shall we take a look at the scuff mark that you so graciously placed on this wall the other day?" he turned his head to nod at the black streak left by her hurled heel.

She averted his gaze in shameful embarrassment.

"You're a loaded gun, Harl. Now, depending on how you play your cards, that can be to your detriment _or_ to your benefit," his scarred mouth curled into a wide grin.

She shook her head blindly but couldn't find the vocal capacity to object.

"Where's that spunk, kid?" he continued, "where's the girl who bashes a man's head in with a blunt object?"

She quietly zoned out and stared heavily at her blank notepad. He watched her carefully, drinking in every twitch and catatonic breath she took. An incredible smile formed at his lips and he couldn't help but bounce giddily in his spot on the chaise. As he gauged her deadpan face he began giggling uncontrollably.

"You in there, kiddo?" he issued through a laugh.

She didn't respond and he cleared his throat before sitting perfectly still.

"Harley," he commanded simply.

She snapped her head up and blinked at him with perplexed eyes.

"Harley," he repeated, slower this time.

"What?" she furrowed her brow.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Nothing," he shrugged casually.

"What did you just ask me?" she blinked at him in confusion.

"I didn't ask you anything," he issued innocently.

"Oh," she said quietly.

The ticking of her desktop clock thundered in her ears and she slowly picked it up. She delicately brushed the face and sighed deeply, shutting her eyes.

"We have five minutes," she murmured in a strange tone.

"Oh please, Harl, don't be so dramatic. We both know that this is not the end. In fact… it's only… the _beginning_," he grinned.

"You're wrong," she shook her head and reopened her eyes.

"I'll see you in a week," he smirked.

"Want to bet?" she suddenly sneered.

"Yeah," he nodded, his smile growing wider, "if I'm not back in your office by next Friday, I'll leave you alone."

"Forever?" she narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"Sure," he shrugged.

"No contact. No keeping tabs on me. No popping back out of nowhere. No killing me. No killing anyone close to me," she reeled off with her fingers.

"Fine," he rolled his eyes.

"And if you win?" she asked quietly.

He smiled enigmatically and she had to swallow down a lump in her throat.

"If I win… I get this straightjacket taken off of me," he shrugged his constrained shoulders.

"I get rec room privileges. I get dining hall privileges – no more of that faux-beef crap. And lastly, I get a kiss from you," he grinned flippantly.

She crossed her arms defensively, though she began chewing on her bottom lip in cogitating thought. It was an enticing offer; the prospect of never having to see him again on _his_ own volition was tempting, because then she wouldn't have to be constantly looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life in the event he did escape Arkham (that is, if he _was_ being serious about taking a vacation). On the other hand, he was asking for quite a bundle of privileges – privileges that many of the other inmates, including nonviolent ones, had not yet earned.

"I don't know if I would be able to secure all of that for you," she hesitated.

"Oh Harley girl, you silly little riot," he chuckled, "by the time I'm done with whoever and whatever Jerry throws at me, he's going to toss me back in here with any and every demand you ask of him."

She chewed her lip for a moment longer.

"Everything but the kiss," she finally declared.

"No_**pe**_," he shook his head, "everything _and_ the kiss. Now stop haggling before I throw something even more unsavory in there."

He started cackling and the deafening noise caused a searing flash of pain to slam through her head. She rubbed at her temples painfully before she sighed.

"Fine, it's a deal," she muttered in concession.

"Excellent," he grinned broadly.

She glanced at the clock and noted with an inexplicable amalgamation of relief and melancholy that they only had a minute left in their session.

"Well, I guess I'll see you in passing," she smiled plainly at him.

"See you next Friday," he corrected, "and feel free to wear some lipstick."

He began screeching in resumed laughter and as if on cue, the door flew open.

"Goddammit, clown, do you ever stop laughing?" Frank snapped at him.

* * *

_It'd been a week since the night at the bar, and since then, Harley had to seriously repress some strange feelings. She suddenly felt self-conscious when she was around him and that wasn't something that she could exactly place her finger on. They'd hung out the night before with Tony and gotten completely blitzed for no reason at all, but that was nothing new. In fact, it was becoming routine for all of them, at least for Jack and Harley, to get loaded and chew the fat. Though those two had agreed to go see a Saturday matinee – some shitty horror movie that they planned on laughing at – but Harley never showed, which was probably why a very irritated Jack scaled the fire escape outside her window to confront her. He'd been doing that all week otherwise, as she had told him, hilariously, that she was too lazy to go buzz him in from the living room and she hardly heard it half the time anyway._

_Yet as he let himself into her chaotic room to snap at her, it suddenly dawned on him that she wasn't there. He glanced around in slight confusion; if she wasn't out with him, she was in her room, at which point he would eventually join her and field her idiotic questions about her psychology or physics homework. He noted the fifth of vodka and a crumpled half-filled carton of cigarettes on her dresser and frowned. They were new additions to her cluttered room and as he casually shoved the carton into his dark slacks, he decided at that very moment to venture into the rest of her tiny apartment._

_He poked his head out her door and squinted over at the couch, but it was unoccupied alongside a muted TV. An older episode of _Freaks and Geeks_ was playing, and he quickly deduced that she must've been around. A quick glance at the closed bathroom door sparked an ugly, irritated energy to course through his brain, and he stormed through the door with incensed words bubbling at his mouth._

_He found her sitting in the bathtub, knees curled to her chest, and just as he was about to verbally accost her, he froze. Very little rendered him speechless, but as he gaped at the petite blonde nestled into the tub, his entire wrath had dissolved. She was flicking a lighter on and off in monotone repetition and staring dully into the flame. Her thumb struck the wheel at perfectly timed intervals, producing a flare and then destroying it as quickly as it appeared. He drank her in from head to toe, from her mismatched socks up to her unusually messy hair. It was tangled and framed her face, hid it even, but that was not enough for him to miss the black eye that spanned her left eye. Her lip was cut, albeit superficially, though the nick was certainly noticeable and had barely healed over in a scab._

_"What the fuck happened to you?" he asked quietly._

_She didn't respond and continued her strange routine. He watched her thumb, covered in a chipped layer of red nail polish, strike and release the wheel. Strike and release. Strike and release. He assumed it must have been therapeutic for her in some way and he leaned down to get closer to her face._

_"Hey," issued quietly._

_She continued to ignore him and as he glimpsed into her vacant eyes, he quickly realized that she simply was not there. She'd checked out somewhere, though he wanted to know exactly where that was. After a moment, he slowly climbed into the bathtub and sat on the opposite side from her. He had to pull his long limbs up to his chest and he snapped his fingers out in front of him._

_"Harley," he commanded._

_He watched for any sign of her return yet gauged nothing._

_"Harley," he repeated louder and reached out to snatch the lighter from her hand._

_The flame singed his own thumb, though he managed to yank it from her grip. She snapped out of her daze and blinked at him with a jarred expression on her face._

_"What happened?" he asked darkly._

_She raised her fingers to her cut lip and a wave of terror washed over her face. They moved up her cheek and patted at her skin, though she flinched, as if she'd forgotten about the deep purple bruise that marred her eye. Her bottom lip began to tremble and she raised her glassy eyes to meet his._

_"Um…" she swallowed heavily._

_"Who did that to you?" he asked in a low, even voice._

_"Roger," she croaked, "he… he tried to… to…"_

_"What did he try to do?" he suddenly asked with an edge of menace in his voice._

_"I-I… I was on the couch and he came home and started talking to me. And I wasn't even really paying attention to him. It was three in the morning and I was half asleep watching some stupid movie and all of a sudden he's on the couch talking to me and telling me how much I look like my mom and the next minute he's on top of me and trying to shush me and I'm trying to hit him and he's hitting me back _really_ hard," she paused to point at her black eye._

_"And… and… and…" she trailed._

_"And?" he demanded in a growl._

_"He started to choke me. I couldn't breath and then he's ripping at my shirt and I remember looking over at the coffee table and seeing his beer bottle. So I smashed him over the head with it and didn't stop. I kept doing it and I was screaming at him, telling him I was going to kill him. I hit him until the bottle shattered, but he got up and fled before I could do anything more. And I have no idea where he is right now... Fucked up and half-dead somewhere probably," she moaned loudly._

_She buried her head into her knees though he unclenched his jaw and visibly relaxed._

_"Self defense," he said simply._

_"No," she raised her head to meet his gaze._

_"That's not what I'm upset about. I wish… I _wish_ I had killed him. But then it's like… what am I capable of? What is inside of me that would… allow me to think that was okay? I picked up a shard of glass and my first instinct was to do _horrible_ things to him," she sighed._

_She held out her right hand for him to see the deep red line spanning the length of her palm; she'd gripped the shard so tightly that it bit into her own skin._

_"We all have monsters inside of us," he said simply._

_"But I don't want to be a monster," she croaked._

_It was silent for a moment before he sighed deeply in exasperation._

_"If you want him dead but don't want to do it I can have that taken care of," he murmured._

_"Would you do it?" she blinked at him with large, perplexed eyes._

_"Do you want me to?" he asked quietly._

_Another silent moment passed and she pulled her knees closer to her chest._

_"Have you ever killed someone?" she whispered in fearful wonder._

_His dark, indifferent eyes blinked once and that was enough confirmation for the hair on the back of her neck to rise._

_"How old were you?" she asked sadly._

_"Sixteen," he said plainly._

_"Why did you do it?" she murmured._

_"Told to," he issued._

_"By who?" her voice cracked._

_He shot her a cutting, almost disappointed glance. It was a glance she often received from him, as he had increasingly high expectations for her. As every day passed, he set the bar higher and higher. She had to scramble to keep up otherwise she'd receive a caustic comment or glance. So she furrowed her brow in deep contemplation and mused through several possibilities until her face lit up in revelation._

_"Is your dad a made man?" she asked carefully._

_He nodded and she relaxed, suddenly pleased with herself that she had passed yet another one of his tests._

_"Are you Italian?" she asked abruptly and raised a doubtful eyebrow._

_"No," he said simply._

_"Well you must have an Italian grandparent or something," she offered._

_"I don't know," he issued apathetically._

_"That would be the only way he could be made. And the fact that he must be an exceptional member of the family," she continued._

_He merely blinked._

_"Is Tony made? Is his dad? Are you?" she fired off with a furrowed brow._

_"Not yet. Yes. No, and I never will be," he responded accordingly in a dull monotone._

_She chewed at her lip and nodded vacantly as she processed his words._

_"When was the first time you saw someone die?" she finally whispered._

_"Ten," he answered blandly._

_Her jaw dropped and she blinked at him for a long moment in utter disbelief._

_"What happened?" she asked, alarmed._

_He shrugged apathetically._

_"I couldn't sleep so I went downstairs and… let's just say that my dad was taking care of some business in the kitchen," he issued._

_She stared at him, jaw unhinged, and she hugged her knees tighter._

_"That must have been horrible," she whispered and her large eyes glimmered with tears._

_"It didn't bother me," he shrugged._

_As she struggled to keep her eyes dry, his own were completely void of emotion._

_"Did you feel anything when you killed that person?" she croaked._

_"No," he said simply._

_"Nothing?" she raised her eyebrows and she couldn't control the single tear that rolled down her cheek._

_"Nothing," he blinked._

_She had to wipe at the stray tear, suddenly embarrassed._

_"You can sleep at night?" she whispered in a raspy tone._

_"I sleep like a baby," he issued with a smile._

_It was a chilling, emotionless smile and as it engulfed the entirety of his face, she shivered._

_"There's something wrong with you," she shook her head._

_"You think?" he raised an eyebrow and smirked._

_"Have you ever felt… anything?" she suddenly asked._

_The grin fell from his face and he furrowed his brow in confusion._

_"Heartbreak? Longing? Happiness?" she pressed._

_"Happiness," he finally said with a tint of suspicion laced in his voice._

_"Not when you're high or anything. Genuine happiness," she blinked at him._

_He shrugged and nodded after a moment. She closed her eyes, willing for them to dry themselves, before she reopened them. He was staring at her curiously and she slowly pulled herself up onto her knees to shuffle over to him. She curled up in his lap, half expecting for him to shove her off, but he surprisingly allowed her to wrap her arms around his waist and bury her head into his collarbone. He shifted uncomfortably, though she only held onto him tighter._

_"I'm sorry," she said sadly._

_"For what?" he sighed in exasperation._

_"That you've had to experience all of that," she mumbled sorrowfully._

_"Harley, it doesn't bother me. None of it bothers me," he said in a low, even voice._

_"And that's what I'm sorry for," she murmured._

_He blinked hard in confusion as she nuzzled deeper into the crook of his clavicle. It took his brain a lengthy moment for him to process the gesture and he had to swallow uncomfortably. Slowly and carefully, he curled a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her head from his chest. It was her turn to blink up at him in stupefaction, but he cupped her chin tenderly and tweaked it to drink in her damaged face. His gaze lowered down her neck and stopped at a large red and purple splotch that raked from her jawline to collarbone. He lost sight of its entirety, as the thin white fabric of her top hid the remaining portion of the bruise, and he skirted his hand south to undo the top button of her blouse. She gazed at him longingly and watched him slowly undo a second button before he gently pulled the gossamer fabric back to assess the mutilated area. He quickly determined that she had very sensitive skin. A sea of broken capillaries internally pooled a glut of blood, creating a dark red-purple mass that juxtaposed harshly with her fair complexion. If a solid throttle was enough to taint her this austerely, he wondered how she would look on the worst day of her life. Then again, she _did_ scramble out as the victor, and he suddenly wondered how that sonuvabitch was looking._

_After a moment, he pulled his hand back but she snatched him by the wrist. He blinked at her in resumed confusion as she guided his hand back to her blouse, her burning eyes trained on his puzzled ones, and he watched her slowly undo the third button. Bemusement quickly dissipated into lustful comprehension, and he glanced at her heatedly before his hand followed suit and leisurely unbuttoned the rest of her shirt. She gazed at him achingly and slinked her arms around his neck. His own gaze explored her petite and battered upper body, drinking in every bruise, freckle, and mark. He stopped at a thin, spidery scar on her left ribcage and after a moment, smoothed a thumb along its length. She shivered against his curious touch before he placed his hand against her flat, silky stomach and moved it north, brushing up her cleavage and stopping at her collarbone. His fingers spread out at the base of her neck and his eyes rose to meet hers._

_"I thought we were completely platonic," he recycled her words in a husky murmur._

_"That's hilarious," she quipped with a coquettish smirk._

_She could feel his warm breath grow thicker and his hand moved up her neck to grab a fistful of her hair. He tugged her forward and crashed his lips against hers in a forceful kiss. She moaned against his mouth and snared her fingers in his curls, pulling him in deeper. They tugged at each other's faces trying in vain to get closer to one another, though it was already quite physically impossible for them to do that. She bit his bottom lip aggressively and he grunted, suddenly growing hard underneath her. His tongue pushed at her teeth, demanding entrance, and she relented. Their tongues wrestled shamelessly, deepening the kiss and fighting for control. He pushed a bra strap down before ultimately attempting to battle with the clasp. As he clumsily fumbled with it for a long moment, she laughed into his mouth before there was a knock at the door._

_Both their heads snapped toward the noise and they glanced at one another in a daze._

_"Harley," her mother called out, "are you in there?"_

_"Uh, yeah," she responded in a fluster as she furiously attempted to re-button her blouse._

_"Hold on," she yelled over her shoulder._

_She stood from the tub and grabbed a toothbrush before popping it into her mouth. He snickered at her, still splayed out casually in the bathtub, before he tapped his upper arm. She glanced at her own to discover her loose bra strap hanging off her shoulder and quickly yanked it back into place, beneath her newly re-buttoned blouse._

_He smirked at her and, after a brief moment, she opened the door to greet her mom who, per usual, was wrapped up in her thick red bathrobe. Her dark tangled hair framed her exhausted face, and Harley watched the eyes that had been passed down onto her prick heavily with tears._

_"Can I talk to you?" she asked softly, almost fearfully._

_It was clear that she had been crying. Her puffy eyes certainly gave her away, but it was the extra tint of haggardness in her face that revealed she'd been carrying a heavy burden that only a mother would ever come to know._

_"Um sure," she responded quietly, pulling the toothbrush out of her mouth._

_She turned to place it back at the sink and the nervous wreck at the door apprehensively craned her head into the bathroom to find Jack sprawled out in the tub. Almost as if in relief, she sighed before issuing an affectionate smile._

_"Oh hi honey," she greeted sweetly._

_He returned the smile and raised his hand to greet the oblivious and pathetic woman. Yet there was an endearing quality packaged alongside her zanier traits, and he tilted his head cordially._

_"How are you, Mrs. Quinzel?" he asked politely._

_Harley glanced at him and wondered where his superficial (or was it genuine?) charm stemmed from. Perhaps it was that Southern gene imbedded somewhere deep inside of him._

_"I'm okay. Thank you for asking, sweetie," she smiled absentmindedly._

_"Alright, Mom," Harley declared and gently grabbed her hand, "let's go."_

_She led her into the shadowy cave that was the master bedroom. The shades were drawn tightly, though a trickle of sunlight filtered through the tiniest of cracks in a window. She had to squint to make out the disheveled bed, though even in the darkest of nights she knew exactly how to navigate the room._

_"What did you want to talk about?" she asked softly, though she knew perfectly well._

_In fact, she knew how this entire conversation would go. She could recite it by memory, if asked to. It was like a broken record, playing over and over and over. Repetitive, distorted and cyclic. It was the turntable needle scratching in the back of her head every time she walked into the apartment and looked at the closed door to her mother's room. Though this record didn't break in Gotham; its inception occurred years ago in New York, simply because broken homes aren't ameliorated by a change in address._

_"I'm so sorry," her mother started to cry._

_"Mom," she said quietly, "it's okay. You don't have to cry."_

_"I don't know where I've been. I haven't been a good mother," she sobbed._

_"It's okay," she repeated numbly._

_"No it's not," she shook her head, "look at you. Look at me. Look at what I've brought into this home. A _monster_," she blubbered._

_"Mom," she reached out a hand to touch her frail shoulder._

_"I'm so ashamed," she cried harder, "if your father were still here he would take one look at us and turn around."_

_"That's not true," Harley started to tear up, "Mom that's not true."_

_"I've failed you. I'm supposed to keep you safe, and instead, I bring evil through the front door," she bawled and buried her face into her hands._

_"Dad wouldn't turn around," she shook her head._

_"You think so?" she whimpered and raised her head to peer at her with red, glossy eyes._

_"He'd come back if he could," she nodded sadly._

_Her mother began nodding forlornly, but she watched her shoulders crumble underneath the weight of her petite, assuaging hand._

_"I don't know how to live without him," she started sobbing again._

_"I know, Mom," she nodded numbly._

_"Don't call me that. I'm not a good mother," she shook her head._

_"You were," she assuaged, "you and Dad were great parents."_

_"I've been so selfish," she hiccupped._

_"It's okay," she repeated expressionlessly._

_"No!" she suddenly shouted, "it's not okay. I can't even keep my children safe. I… I've failed you both. I've completely lost sight of what my duty was. I spent all these years as a mourning widow when I was supposed to be a mother. So many years lost on sleep and prescriptions and for _what_? More pain and loss?"_

_She broke down into a screeching sob fest and Harley had to exhale shakily._

_The painful moment prompted her to turn toward the room's dresser and open up a small maple box, which was meticulously placed next to a half-filled glass of water. The box itself was simple. It was smoothly polished and possessed a single, golden clasp. She opened it easily, the hinges thoroughly worn from years of use, and fished through its contents. She pushed past her father's military medals, including his Purple Heart and Bronze Star, and finally picked out an orange prescription bottle. After holding it up to her face and silently reading the label, she unscrewed the childproof lid, shook out two pills, and pressed them into her mother's hand._

_"Here, Mommy. Take these," she assuaged in a soft tone._

_The sobbing woman paused her cries to shakily accept and dry swallow the pills, though Harley picked up the glass of water from the dresser and offered it to her. She precariously took it, taking the tiniest of sips, before idly shuffling toward the disheveled bed. Her daughter helped lower her down into a fetal position before she sat down next to her and began rubbing her back in a slow, soothing rhythm._

_"Maybe we should take a rest now," she offered lightly._

_She nodded her head in a catatonic bobbing motion, though her delicate fingers began wiping strands of wet, mahogany brown hair from her eyes. After a moment, Harley stood up and gently took the glass from her hands before she leaned over to drag the heavy duvet over her mother's small body. Though when she turned to leave, the frail woman snatched her hand and issued a single, weak squeeze._

_"You're such a good girl," she smiled up at her daughter, "my little baby girl."_

_Harley smiled sadly at her and she began to firmly tuck her in. As she watched her mother's lovely blue eyes flutter shut, her own pricked with heavy tears. She gently patted her head before leaving the dimly lit room and closing the door with a whisper of sound. She then paused outside the bathroom door and began wiping at the several stray tears that had fallen from her lids. After a moment of hesitation, she took a deep sigh before precariously entering._

_He was still splayed out in the bathtub and his dark eyes immediately connected with hers. She sighed again and set the glass down at the sink before slowly sitting down on the bathtub edge. There was a moment of silence as she stared out into space, and he patiently waited for her to rejoin reality._

_"Sorry," she finally issued in monotone._

_He blinked up and her and sighed._

_"I don't understand why you're always apologizing," he shook his head._

_"Did you hear any of that?" she turned to glance at him._

_"Your walls aren't exactly thick," he tapped the wall to his left._

_She glanced at the single partition dividing the bathroom from the master bedroom and sighed heavily._

_"Sorry," she repeated and he gave her a sharp look._

_"What's the first piece of advice I ever gave you?" he asked flatly._

_"Never apologize for anything that you do," she restated quietly._

_"The same goes for things that are out of your control. Now don't let me hear that word come out of your mouth again," he ordered._

_She nodded numbly and zoned out once more in a disconnected trance. After a moment, she began gnawing at her cut lip and her teeth accidently ripped through the scab, effectively snapping herself out of her stupor. She wiped at her bleeding mouth before smearing her hand against her dark jeans. He was watching her very carefully and when she turned to meet his ruminating gaze, she furrowed her brow._

_"What?" she blinked._

_"Nothing," he issued simply._

_She wiped hard at her lip, smearing the back of her hand, and she abruptly stood up to rip off a length of toilet paper from the roll._

_"Fuck," she muttered under her breath as she began dabbing at her crimson blood._

_He continued to watch her in rapt curiosity until she raised her head to meet his stare once more._

_"_What?_" she reissued, raising her eyebrows._

_"It's nothing, Harley," he said simply._

_She narrowed her eyes in suspicion._

_"You can leave, you know. You don't have to sit here and watch my shitty life," she snapped._

_She returned to dabbing at her face and he casually propped an elbow up onto the tub edge. He ran a hand through his sandy hair and he tilted his chin up toward her._

_"Child…ren?" he asked nonchalantly._

_She paused to sigh deeply before crumpling up the bloodied tissue wad in her hand._

_"I probably never mentioned why I moved to Gotham, did I?" she peered at him with exhausted eyes._

_He waited for her to continue._

_"My brother got transferred to Arkham. Psychotic depression," she murmured._

_He was silent for a long moment._

_"What'd he do?" he asked quietly._

_She dabbed at her lip, which had stopped bleeding, before she tossed the tissue wad into the trash bin._

_"He didn't really do anything," she said after a moment, avoiding his gaze._

_She shut her eyes and ran a pair of soiled hands through her thick blonde hair._

_"Maybe you can't tell, but the depression gene runs pretty strong in the family," she glanced at him and jutted her thumb toward the wall._

_"He struggled with it on and off for as long as I can remember," she continued, her face slipping back into a vacant daze, "I mean even when we were kids he would say the most peculiar things. It was just… normal depression growing up - if you can call depression normal. He'd be sad. He'd sleep a lot. He lost interest in just about everything. Though it started to get really bad when he hit sixteen. That's when Dad died. Thinking about death evolved into thinking about suicide, and then it started to turn psychotic. He had pretty intense auditory hallucinations and would go on about how he had voices that talked to him. It was scary, but he could control it. Then it started to get violent when he was… nineteen."_

_She paused and furrowed her brow._

_"Yeah, nineteen," she nodded pensively, "We started hiding all the knives in the house. He wouldn't try to hurt us though… it was for him. But then one day he flew off the handle and somehow found one. I don't know what I was thinking, but my first instinct was to fight him for it. It wasn't to run away… it was to _fight_ him because, you know, I guess I'm not that smart."_

_She strained a soft laugh and shook her head._

_"In the struggle he accidentally cut me," she tapped at her rib absentmindedly, "it barely cut through the dermis, but it still scarred for some reason. Though it bled a lot initially, I remember that. I couldn't feel it, I just remember looking down at my shirt and there was all this blood and I was so… scared. And he didn't say _anything_. He just stared at me with these dead, heavy eyes, until he pointed the knife in my face. And I couldn't move because I thought I was staring into the eyes of Death himself. Then he said… he said, Harley, if you don't admit me right now I'm going to kill myself. And I was bleeding and weaponless and thinking, am I going to die or is he? So I tried to talk him down for so long, thinking that I could get him to stay. I told him that I wasn't mad, that he was just having a bad day, and that I would heal. I tried everything, but then I suddenly realized, through all the begging and the tears, that he had to go. He wasn't coming back. He had to go and there was nothing I could do."_

_"That was the worst day of my life. Realizing that," she whispered and stared down at the ground._

_"At least with my dad, he just was gone," she continued, "that was really bad at first. But he'd been deployed so he was hardly ever here to begin with. And it was comforting to pretend that he was still deployed, or to at least know that he died with honor. He died a war hero, Jack. He died as this incredibly honorable man, so deeply loved by everyone. By his country, his family, his neighborhood, his barber, our bodega guy. Everyone."_

_She shook her head with a faint smile before her eyes glazed over once more._

_"With my brother it was so… surreal. Watching him deteriorate like that. Over the years, I watched him become someone else. And not only that, but I watched everyone in his life pull away from, because there's no honor in being crazy. At least to those people, anyway. I watched his girlfriend leave him, his friends distancing themselves, and eventually my own mother couldn't even stand to be around him. Maybe she was scared of him, or maybe it was the fact that he looks too much like my dad. He started slipping pretty quickly after that, and I had to watch his mind make him do… terrible things to himself. So while everyone in his life ran for the hills, _I_ stayed. And so I spent all these years, holding on to him with this vice grip because I was so fucking terrified of losing someone else in my life, only to realize that he'd never been in my grip at all."_

_It was his turn to silently zone out, though she knew that he was listening. He didn't exactly have a way with words, but the fact that he hadn't booked it yet gave her an immediate sense of comfort. She pursed her lips in reticence and wordlessly left the room. After a brief moment, she returned wielding a creased photo and clambered back into the bathtub. She nestled comfortably into his lap, propping her legs up onto the tub edge, and began smoothing out the edges of the photo. Jack peered down at it, past the blonde hair tumbling over her shoulder, and she cleared her throat._

_In the photo, Harley was smiling broadly with a mouth full of metal braces. Her cheeks were rounder and she appeared to be in her early teens, probably thirteen or fourteen. A taller, blonder boy had his arm wrapped around her shoulders and issued an equally large grin. They shared the same smile, though it was clear that his teeth had already survived several years of orthodontic torture. In contrast to her round face and full cheeks, his cheekbones were quite defined. Yet while he had much sharper features, his mop of blonde hair and crinkled blue-green eyes were enough to convince one that they were most definitely related._

_"Peter," she said simply, pointing at him._

_She pulled out a second photo and held it up higher for him to see._

_In this one, two children and a man sat on a blanket at what appeared to be a very crowded beach. The girl, who was merely a toddler, was wearing a crooked pair of oversized Wayfarers on her face and her blonde hair was pulled up into two spunky pigtails. She was pointing stubbornly at a sandcastle that her older brother appeared to be working on. The man, their father, was also working on the project, though he was mid-laugh. He possessed the kind of overtly masculine features that women often flocked to, complete with a blonde buzz cut and a sharp jawline. Clearly a very fit man, he had the traditional Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattooed on his left shoulder, immediately recognizable as the iconic emblem of the United States Marine Corps. Beneath that, in large letters, was the official motto of the Marine Corps: _Semper Fidelis_. Latin for "Always Faithful". The tattoo extended into an intricate, colorful sleeve that spanned shoulder to wrist, which included a wide range of art, from an icon of Saint Peter to a dark-haired pin-up girl that looked an awful lot like her mother._

_"Coney Island Beach," she murmured wistfully before placing the photos down._

_"You don't have siblings, do you?" she craned her head up and blinked at him._

_He shook his head and she nodded absentmindedly._

_"What's your mom like?" she asked almost inaudibly._

_He paused for a long moment and she held her breath for an answer._

_"I never really knew her," he said blankly._

_"Does_ that_ bother you?" she turned around in his lap to gaze up at him._

_He shook his head, eyes glazed and vacant._

_"I wish I was like you," she confessed sadly, "unfeeling and apathetic."_

_"Harley," he issued in a dead monotone, "just shut up."_

_She opened her mouth to retort but faltered and eventually closed it shut. His words took a moment to fully marinate, until she started to cry. It was the sniveling, pathetic kind of crying complete with whimpers and quiet wails. He sighed heavily and shifted underneath her, displacing her comfortable position, until she eventually just slid off his lap and curled into herself. He fished her lighter and cigarette carton from his pocket and lit one up. If he was going to have to be around such a mawkish display of petty emotions, he needed a slight head buzz. He took several very long drags before pulling the cigarette from his lips and offering it to her._

_She shook her head petulantly, similar to that of a stubborn child, and he rolled his eyes before sticking it between her teeth in pacification. As it effectively impeded all her mournful noises, he leaned forward and planted his hands firmly on her sides before lifting her back onto his lap. She issued a whine of what he construed to be protest before she sniffed sadly and curled back into him, much to his discomfort._

_"She was very compassionate," he said after a moment, "too compassionate."_

_Harley was silent for a long moment before she pulled the cigarette from her lips._

_"What's wrong with compassion?" she finally murmured._

_"I don't know. Maybe you can tell me," he said quietly._

_A long moment passed before she stuck the cigarette back in her mouth and sucked hard at the tobacco. She had nothing more to say to him and he to her, though after a minute, he snatched his cigarette back because, after all, he wasn't a goddamn charity._

* * *

Sorry for the update delay. Life hasn't exactly been routine - what with finals encroaching and the fact that I go to school an hour and a half outside Boston. Anyway, the next one should be up much quicker. As always, thanks for reading.


	8. Kissability

Normal font = present, Italics = past (10 years ago)

Disclaimer: DC owns everything.

* * *

You're driving me crazy, you smell so sick  
I feel so tired, you make me sick  
You're driving me crazy, I feel so sick  
You're driving me crazy, give us a kiss  
-_Kissability_, Sonic Youth

**Monday:**

The searing noise of the apartment buzzer prompted Harley to jolt up from her imbedded niche on the couch. She blearily blinked the fatigue from her eyes before processing that she had a visitor, though she was in no mood or state for guests so she irritably huffed toward the front door.

"What?" she snapped into the buzzer.

"Whoa, Harl. It's me," a velvety voice responded.

"Oh," she muttered after a moment.

She jabbed the access button on her buzzer and loitered for several moments, fluffing her hair and gnawing at her lip. Finally, the knock came and she opened the door to meet the reproachful glare of two intense green eyes. The redhead on the other side took a lengthy moment to drink her in before her red lips pulled down into a small frown.

"Jesus, Harley," Pam sighed and pushed past her into the apartment.

She stared hard at her best friend who was clad in an oversized bathrobe and matching set of black underwear, blonde hair disheveled in knotted flyaway chaos. She cradled a cold tub of ice cream defensively against her bare stomach and issued an equally wary stare.

"What the hell happened?" Pam demanded, planting her hands firmly on her hips.

Harley's wound-up jaw slackened ever so slightly, suddenly choosing to issue the softest of sighs.

"I suck," she mumbled before scooping out a lump of ice cream and plopping it into her mouth.

"Aren't you lactose intolerant?" the redhead chided and grabbed the tub from her.

"Only slightly. I can have a single serving of dairy per day," she countered.

"Seems to me that you've already had your daily _caloric_ intake," she muttered, peering into the half-eaten tub.

"I can eat ice cream if I want to," she whined childishly.

"You shouldn't be eating dairy at all," Pam scolded and glided toward the windows, setting the tub down on the coffee table along the way.

"It's terrible for your digestive tract," she added over her shoulder.

"Says the vegan," the blonde retorted with a scowl.

"We're not eighteen anymore, Harley. You can't go eating tubs of ice cream without consequences," she issued pointedly.

"I look great," Harley snapped, though a hand subconsciously flew up to rub against her flat stomach.

"For _now_. But you no longer have the metabolism of an elite gymnast. Remember that," she quipped before snapping the floor-length curtains open.

A sea of light burst into the room, illuminating the chaos that had consumed its otherwise orderly state. Harley issued a whine of protest and had shut her eyes in discomfort.

Strewn clothes had begun to pile in various places on the polished wood floor and a weekend's worth of dirty dishes had slowly claimed the coffee table. Further, several DVD discs were scattered in front of the muted television. As Pam glided over to shut off the noiseless GCN news report she couldn't help but notice that the genres of the scattered movies alternated between vomit-inducing romance and skin-crawling horror. Though they all sat on the extreme end of the spectrum: neither were mildly romantic nor scary, but were both ladled so copiously with saccharine or gore that sensory overload was guaranteed.

Think _Casablanca_ on a hefty steroid dose and anything with an NC-17 rating.

This was not surprising to Pam; she'd known for many, many years that Harley was very extreme when she reverted into a "state." As she glanced around the apartment she determined that it wasn't the worst episode she'd seen, but it still required acknowledgement nonetheless.

"Okay, what happened?" Pam turned to her and crossed her arms.

"I got taken off my case," Harley muttered sadly, averting her gaze from across the room.

"From the patient that you like?" she raised her eyebrows.

"I don't like him," she snapped, blue eyes suddenly ablaze.

Pam held up hers hands, though she firmly stood her ground.

"Relax, Harl. Don't take this out on me," she warned.

The two women glared at one another for a lengthy moment, green eyes locked on equally intense blue, before the incensed blonde relented.

"Sorry," she murmured with a melancholy sigh.

Another moment passed before Pam too relented with a sigh.

"Why did it get revoked?" she asked in exasperation.

"My boss said that I'm not capable enough to handle it," Harley sneered, all despondence suddenly transforming into caustic anger.

"So? Then he's just looking out for you," she crossed her arms.

"No he's not," she snapped and a dribble of spit rocketed out from between her gnashed teeth.

Though it landed several feet away from her, Pam couldn't help but idly dust off the bottom of her green blouse.

"Look, I know you're upset but I can't mother you every time something in your life goes wrong," she sighed with a pointed glance.

"I can be upset if I want to," Harley protested with a frown.

"Yes, you can. But you cannot subject yourself to this unstable behavior," she shook her head.

There was a pregnant pause before Harley cocked her head.

"What's unstable about it?" she furrowed her brow in genuine naivety.

"Everything!" Pam suddenly exploded, throwing her hands up.

"Look at this place. When was the last time you put real clothes on?" she snapped.

"Yesterday," the disheveled blonde quipped, defiantly crossing her arms.

Her friend pushed past her and stormed into her bedroom before flinging the closet door open. She began making a commotion fueled by incensed anger. She'd lost her characteristically cool demeanor, _grâce à_ Harley, which was a rare but definite occurrence. Harley's emotions had a propensity for transferring over to others, but when Pam lost her cool, she knew it was fairly serious. Thus she meekly shuffled into the room, apprehensive of what awaited her.

"You will put on some clothes and we will go out," Pam commanded as she rifled through the stocked closet.

"Go out where?" she pouted.

"We're going to get you something proper to eat, first of all. Then we're going to do something productive. Maybe we can go to the park," she issued pointedly.

"I don't want to eat anything vegetarian and sit in a park," she whined.

Though it was an empty, powerless whine.

"Harley, get your shit together. I'm not your mother," Pam snapped, suddenly spinning around to face her.

Her severe green leer managed to snap Harley's mouth shut and she huffed in concession. Meanwhile, Pam turned to chuck a pair of black jeans and a white top at her. She stared at them for a moment before sighing. As she shed her robe and began to pull both on, the redhead pulled out a cardigan from the rack and thrust it into her chest.

"It's chilly out," she stated purposely.

"Thanks Mom," Harley rolled her eyes just as she finished hastily buttoning her jeans.

She irritably snatched the cardigan and met Pam's reproving stare.

"You're twenty-seven years old and yet you're acting like a pissed off teenager," she sneered.

The blonde huffed once more and wrapped herself into the red cardigan. Pam then went to the dresser, picked up Harley's purse and peacoat, and pressed them into her arms.

"You're being a bitch," Harley frowned.

"It's called tough love," she retorted before turning to glide off.

After a moment, she grumpily threw on the coat and stalked out of her bedroom to ultimately exit the apartment. As she locked its chaos away, she suddenly began to calm down. She would deal with it at a later time and maybe some fresh air _would_ be good for her.

When she met a waiting Pam at the elevator, they shared an awkward glance and silent moment.

"Sorry, Red," she finally sighed before stepping forward to wrap her arms around her waist in a tight hug.

"It's okay, Harley," she sighed in exasperation and returned the hug.

"You know how I can get sometimes," she murmured and squeezed her tighter.

Pam nodded slowly and absentmindedly began to pat her back.

"Thanks for always being there for me though. I imagine dealing with me for eight years hasn't been the easiest and who knows what state I'd be in if I didn't have you," she mumbled.

"Nine," she corrected, "and don't mention it."

She nodded and held onto her tighter, prompting Pam to wonder just what would happen if she weren't there to keep Harley from falling apart.

The two stayed glued to one another as they descended nineteen flights.

"I'm sorry I made you mad. I know you don't like anger," Harley murmured.

"Your… emotions… have a tendency for transference," she responded simply.

The _ding_ of the elevator didn't register to the blonde and Pam had to peel her away from the embrace. She placed her hands on her shoulders and distanced herself an arms-length away. The distance elicited a dazed, confused look from Harley and Pam had to pat her soothingly.

"I'm still here," she reminded her with a smile.

She carefully took her by the arm and led her out of the elevator, just as Harley tightly looped her arm around hers.

"The only one left," she responded vacantly.

Pam didn't respond, perhaps because she didn't hear her, or perhaps because she already knew and accepted this as fact.

**Tuesday:**

Back at Arkham Asylum, Harley had her first session with her new patient. He was nonviolent and a paranoid schizophrenic, though he possessed a decade-long kleptomaniac streak that finally landed him in an institution.

The session itself was bland. He was well-behaved, received Arkham's full list of privileges, and proved to actually be quite pleasant. Their hour-long session was also very transparent, which was quite the change from the cryptic and circuitous dialogues that Harley had with her former patient. Yet she couldn't help but monotonously scrawl all of her new patient's honest and open responses without any genuine interest. He was also polite and she wasn't even really sure how to handle that, perhaps because Arkham Asylum had a paradoxical knack for destroying any goodness or integrity. It was paradoxical in the sense that an institution meant for rehabilitation and character building oftentimes corrupted individuals to ultimately reveal the worst side of humanity. Unfortunately, this corruption was almost always permanent and applied more often to the doctors than to the patients.

Just as war corrupts and scars men, the depravity and omnipresence of humanity's brutish nature within Arkham's walls were enough to destroy the most inherently good, Harley was convinced. She herself began to feel her optimism wane. Yet was her goodness still in tact?

Or was she ever good to begin with?

After her session, as she walked through the dimly lit corridors of Intensive Treatment toward the front entrance, she stopped at the massive wall of portraits. Arkham Asylum's greatest minds and dignitaries lined the walls, ranging from Elizabeth Arkham herself to her son and the asylum's founder, Amadeus Arkham. Her eyes continued to scan the Arkham family lineage that spanned down the wall, noting how each portrait was masterfully rendered on large, framed oil canvases. Yet as her curious glance stopped at Jeremiah Arkham's portrait, she unconsciously gritted her teeth. She scowled at it for a long moment before she couldn't help but notice a brand new portrait of Dr. Jonathan Crane immediately to the right of the asylum's current warden. She suddenly remembered the fairly serious crush that she harbored for him in college, but those memories receded as quickly as they appeared.

"They did a poor job on my eyes," a cool voice issued over her shoulder.

She spun around to face the actual Dr. Crane before reluctantly reassessing the portrait. It was true: despite the portrait's unsettling accuracy, his artistic form failed to exude the same icy blue shade of his eyes.

"I agree," she finally managed.

"How are you, Dr. Quinzel?" he mused with a polite smile.

"Oh, I'm well," she strained nervously.

"Have we formally met before?" he tilted his head just a fraction.

"You were my Psychopharmacology TA," she smiled timidly.

"Oh that's right," he nodded ever so slightly.

She blushed and ducked her head. She'd never actually spoken to him before, but had admired him from afar in her gigantic lecture class her junior year of college. He was sharper than the actual professor and she'd swooned left and right every time he took over a lecture. In fact, she took the time to dress up and look her best for every class, despite the fact that enrollment was well over two hundred students. Yet the sea of anonymity didn't stop her from poring over the textbook just to make sure that when grading her assignments, he wouldn't think of her as a dolt in the event that he had miraculously matched her name to her face.

"Dr. Arkham reassigned your case to me," he stated after a moment.

"Oh," she said quietly, averting his gaze.

"Don't take it to heart," he suddenly placed a hand on her shoulder.

She glanced at it and felt the blush in her cheeks deepen.

"Unfortunately, Jeremiah is not the kindest of people," he assuaged in a soothing tone.

She nodded with a faint smile before avoiding his gaze once more.

"I do have a question, however," he declared, withdrawing his hand.

"Yes?" she raised her head to blink at him.

"Did the patient speak with you?" he asked simply.

"How do you mean?" she drew her brows together.

"He won't speak," he confessed with a sigh, "he's utterly mute."

She blinked at him for a moment before nodding absentmindedly.

"He did… but it was mostly blather. Sometimes he spoke about his political philosophy," she murmured.

"Interesting," he mused," though I do wonder why that is."

"I don't know, Dr. Crane," she averted her gaze to the ground.

"He must see something in you," he nodded once.

"What?" she furrowed her brow.

"He spokewith you. He chose to reveal certain things about himself to _you_. Not to me, not to Jeremiah, but to you. Why?"

"I… I don't know," she mumbled.

"He sees something in you," he offered purposely.

"I can assure you that there's nothing special about me," she muttered.

"There's no need for self-deprecation, Dr. Quinzel. You did that with all of your work as well," he smirked.

"You remember having me as a student?" she snapped her head up to blink at him with large eyes.

"You were one of the brightest, if not, _the_ brightest, but you weren't confident enough to _be_ the brightest," he said simply.

She blinked at him for several seconds before shaking her head.

"What are you saying?" she furrowed her brow.

"I wouldn't count yourself out just yet. Jeremiah isn't as keen as he appears to be," he issued a plain smile.

She stared at him incredulously – at her former TA, at her brilliant colleague, at Dr. Jeremiah Arkham's right-hand man. He'd revolutionized the psychiatric field at such an astonishingly young age and was well on track to be the asylum's first warden born outside of the Arkham lineage.

Yet she swirled deeper into shock as he placed his hand on her shoulder once more to lean in to her ear.

"Between you and me, we're the only two competent people in this place," he whispered and his cool breath shivered down her spine.

He withdrew and she blinked numbly at him, still attempting to process the exchange. As he issued a lightning fast wink he turned to walk off through the shadowy corridor, leaving her to chew on much, much more than she could handle at that very moment.

**Wednesday:**

Harley was riding the massive elevator of Secure Transit when it stopped at the sixth floor. The steel doors opened to reveal Dr. Crane, and he entered with a polite, close-lipped smile.

"Hello Doctor," he greeted cordially as he tucked his ID badge back into his crisp white coat.

"Hi Dr. Crane," she smiled sweetly at him.

They rode the elevator in comfortable silence for several moments. As of yesterday, she'd already run into him several times during which they'd exchanged polite smiles and even some small chitchat. While his icy countenance and attitude continued to be slightly off-putting, Harley had quickly realized that he was a genuinely kind man and her nervousness in his presence was beginning to thaw. Though she couldn't help but steal a sideway glance or two at the handsome doctor.

He was orderly in every meaning of the word possible. Crisp white coat, neatly tucked red tie, pressed slacks, precisely styled brown hair, and rigid glasses perched perfectly at the tip of his nose. He firmly held a clipboard and stared straight ahead, his genius brain probably compartmentalizing every single thought, idea, and daydream. Or did a man like him even daydream?

Harley wondered this, but she felt drawn to his presence nonetheless. Perhaps it was because she was continuing to avoid the chaos locked away in her apartment; she needed order right now, not a mess.

"Excuse me for asking such a peculiar question, but what are you afraid of?" he suddenly asked, turning to her.

She turned to blink at him, slightly startled. Though she paused to silently ruminate upon the answer.

"Loss," she said after a thoughtful moment.

"A common fear," he said simply.

"What are you afraid of?" she asked with a tilt of her head.

"Nothing," he issued with a polite smile.

"You're lucky," she murmured.

The elevator arrived at the fourth floor and as the doors opened Harley felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. On the opposite side of the doors stood the Joker. He was clad in his white straightjacket and flanked by his three usual guards. Frank and the others pushed him forward and as he staggered into the elevator, his dark eyes immediately locked onto the eyes that he was all too familiar with. His scarred mouth grew into a massive grin and an undisclosed noise escaped his throat.

"Hey, baby!" he greeted flippantly.

She nervously stepped backward toward the elevator wall, her eyes trained carefully on his predatory leer.

"How ya doin' Harl? Miss me?" he crooned and leaned toward her.

Frank and the two guards pulled him back aggressively and his former psychiatrist blinked at him with large eyes.

"No," she issued plainly.

Her voice remained calm yet she could feel herself begin to tremble. The sinking feeling in her gut worsened as he began screeching in raucous laughter and lurched forward once more.

"Playing hard to get, I see. Keep it up, dollface, it's a turn on," he hooted through laughs.

Suddenly, Dr. Crane stepped toward him and held a defensive arm out before Harley, shielding her behind his tall, wiry build. The Joker immediately stopped laughing and blinked at him with black eyes.

"I can't allow you to speak to Dr. Quinzel that way," he issued sternly.

"Wha_**t**_?" he spat venomously.

They stared at one another in dead heat for several seconds before he snapped outward like a cobra.

"Don't tell me what to do with _my_ own girl," he snarled and the guards yanked him backward.

Despite his restraints, Harley receded further against the wall. Yet to her and the guards' insurmountable surprise, Dr. Crane stepped up toward the feral beast. The two men were nearly the same height, though the Joker had about an inch over Crane. The former was also slightly more built, though that wasn't exactly saying much; he was on the lankier side to begin with, and a rough detox regimen had him rapidly losing muscle mass.

The two men stared at one another dead in the eye, both unrelenting and inexorable. Everyone else in the elevator stared incredulously at the held exchange, every breath held for an emerging victor.

It was the mongoose to make the first move.

"I'm… _afraid_… that you don't call the shots around here," he issued a simpering smile.

"Fuck you," the cobra snapped forward into his face.

Incredibly, Dr. Crane didn't even blink. Rather, he issued another close-lipped smile before stepping backward to rejoin his colleague's side.

"Gentlemen," he declared, "please place him in solitary confinement for the next 24 hours."

"You can't do that," Harley turned to him in objection, "he doesn't deserve that."

"But I _can_," he corrected in an icy tone.

She shook her head up at him in muted protest before he placed a hand firmly on her shoulder.

"You're looking a bit pale, Doctor. Perhaps you'd enjoy something to eat. Can I treat you to something?" he asked cordially.

The incredulous stares, including that of the Joker's, shifted to this particular exchange. She stared up at the handsome psychiatrist and shook her head in refusal. Her naïve demeanor had shifted into a stubborn visage of reticence, yet he placed a hand squarely between her shoulder blades just as the elevator came to a stop at the ground floor.

"I insist," he smiled coldly and guided her forward, out the elevator, past the disbelieving gawks of all three Arkham guards and one of the most feared men on the entire planet.

**Thursday:**

Her second session with her new patient was, once again, uneventful. She exited her office feeling jittery and anxious, as if in anticipation. She wanted something to happen. She needed something to happen. She needed… to talk to someone. Though not just anyone, and as she found herself making her way through countless security checkpoints to get to the deeply secluded region of Intensive Treatment known as Solitary Confinement, her heart rose to her throat. As her brain began internally screaming at her, she continued to numbly go through the motions until she finally found his cell.

She began to tremble again. Yet once more, she hid behind a source of protection that was now a thick steel door. Her heart began to thump erratically against her ribcage and she suddenly realized that she could no longer differentiate fear from… longing.

She ached to see him.

"Hi," she greeted quietly and her soft voice floated eerily through the dark corridor.

A thick silence followed, though her thundering heart hammered inside her head. Unlike his normal cell, the solitary cells didn't have window portholes. She couldn't see him though she knew that he was there.

"What do _you_ want?" his unmistakable voice suddenly snapped from behind the steel door.

"I… I wanted to check up on you," she murmured nervously.

"Jesus," he hocked a laugh, "you really are pathetic."

His words stung at her per usual, though she was beginning to develop a thicker skin to them.

A silence followed and she suddenly regretted coming.

"How was lunch with your boyfriend?" he snapped irritably, startling her.

"He's my colleague," she corrected with a sigh.

"And he shouldn't have put you in solitary," she added.

"He's utterly humorless," he growled and she could imagine the distorted sneer painted on his face.

Another pause followed before she idly began to chip away at her perfect manicure.

"What are you sessions like with Dr. Crane?" she finally asked curiously.

"Booooooooring," he droned from behind the door and it echoed loudly.

"He doesn't treat you poorly?" she furrowed her brow.

"I don't know. Would you consider boredom a form of psychological abuse?" he retorted.

"What does he talk about?" she pressed.

"Fear," he said simply.

"Fear?" she asked blankly.

"Fear and power. Though I can't say that I can relay anything substantial to you. I'm asleep most of the time," he issued in an irked tone.

"Oh."

Once more, and to neither of their surprise, the lengthiest of the silences commenced. She didn't know what to say to him and desperately wished that he would begin of his inane monologues, but it was clear that he had nothing left to say to her. After all, she was no longer his psychiatrist to toy with so _what_ was she to him?

"Well… um… I just wanted to make sure that you were being treated fairly. You'll be taken out of solitary soon," she finally murmured, piercing the silence.

Though it was more to herself than anyone and she was certain that he hadn't heard her.

"Want to fool around to pass the time?" he suddenly asked.

She could hear the tease in his tone and she couldn't help but smile as she imagined his own flippant grin.

"I have some fairlyserious business to attend to. But don't worry, you have a hand to clown around with," she quipped.

He started screaming in laughter and she couldn't help the suppressed giggle that escaped her lips.

"By the way, I_ do_ believe that we'll be reunited tomorrow, Harley girl," he chuckled.

She stopped giggling and blinked incredulously at the steel door that contained Public Enemy Number One, unsure if she'd heard him correctly.

"I heard Johnny and Jerry talking about it," he snickered haughtily.

"Expect a meeting with them tomorrow morning," he added.

A myriad of emotions and physical reactions slammed her from all sides. Her heartbeat was deafening, nauseous bile began to rise in her throat, a searing pain rocketed through her skull and she suddenly felt faint. A mix of fear, uncertainty, and elation exploded inside of her and she could no longer stand to be near him.

"Remember the lipstick, sugar," he screeched in laughter and she heard the wet smack of a fake kiss resonate through the air.

She had to place her hands over her ears and began running down the corridor. His laughter permeated through her and as she entered the elevator she punched at any and all the buttons. As the doors closed, she began to scream. She screamed so loud that she was no longer sure of where she was. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed, because he'd been right and it _wasn't_ over. He was still in her life, he would _always_ be in her life, and that thought alone fueled her screams. Yet she suddenly stopped when she realized that she owed him something, that little something being a kiss, and was horrified to realize that not only could she no longer differentiate fear from longing, but could no longer between desire and obligation either.

**Friday:**

"I refuse to be his psychiatrist unless he receives rec room and dining hall privileges," Harley snapped.

She was seated across from Dr. Arkham and Dr. Crane in the former's massive, dimly lit office. As the Joker had correctly stated, she was currently in a meeting with two of the asylum's most powerful presences. She hadn't slept at all the night before and was running on five cups of black coffee and a streak of adrenaline when she realized that she had a bet to uphold.

At around four-thirty in the morning she'd accepted the fact that the Joker would be returned to her and she suddenly began to fear what he would do if she didn't hold up her end of the deal. Also, the thought of putting her boss in his place was incredibly tempting, so she may or may not have made her fifth cup Irish to conjure up a flare of confidence.

As in, she did just that.

"Harleen, you know that those are only privileges for nonviolents on good behavior," Dr. Arkham quipped impatiently.

"It's Dr. Quinzel," she snapped, "and fine. If you won't grant _my_ patient those privileges I wish you luck on finding a psychiatrist that he'll actually speak to."

"I would consider Dr. Quinzel's requests," Dr. Crane interjected.

"I am the warden of this institution. I think I know what privileges a particular patient should and should not receive," he bellowed and attempted to rise from his chair.

Yet Dr. Crane, sitting directly to his right, placed a firm hand on his shoulder, coaxing him back down into his seat.

Harley cocked her head and issued a bold smirk before shrugging.

"Fine. Consider this my resignation," she said simply and rose from her chair.

The timid, wide-eyed intern had finally lashed out in rebellion and a heavy pause followed as the weight of her words suddenly came crashing down on the warden. The pure shock of her statement had paralyzed him, or perhaps it was the realization that he _needed_ her. She was the closest to the Joker that he would get - an _intern_ was the closest that he, Dr. Jeremiah Arkahm, would get to arguably the world's greatest criminal mastermind.

As she stood over him, for the first time in their tenuous relationship, she realized that_ she_ held the power and she reveled in the way that he suddenly shrank in his seat.

"Har – Dr. Quinzel," Jeremiah held his hands up, "no need to be rash. Please take a seat."

Dr. Crane eyed her with a glint of amusement in his icy eyes.

"I won't barter with you, Jeremiah," she sneered.

"Okay. Okay, he'll have access to the cafeteria and recreation rooms," he pleaded, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a frenzy.

She slowly sat down in her seat and crossed her legs, suddenly exuding an air of confidence that neither of the men had seen from her.

"Great," she issued simply.

"You'll be just fine, Dr. Quinzel," Dr. Crane issued a curt smile.

She couldn't help but return the smile.

"Though, if I may, Dr. Arkham, I do believe that you owe Dr. Quinzel an apology," he issued plainly, turning to the flustered old man.

His cheeks flushed red and incensed words bubbled at his mouth, aching to verbally berate the cocky little intern sitting across from him. Yet the one shred of humility in his body stopped his barrage of words and he shamefully conceded.

"I'm… sorry for doubting you, Har – Dr. Quinzel," he grumbled, avoiding her gaze.

"Don't worry about it, Jerry," she shrugged and rose from the chair.

Dr. Arkham lowered his head in frustrated shame while Dr. Crane lifted his to amusedly watch his colleague.

"Gentlemen," she issued a nod and a sweet smile before turning to exit the room.

Once she'd closed the door and began clacking her heels down the corridor, an enormous smile engulfed her face. Her buzz was beginning to fade and she silently thanked it for her display of confidence. As she giddily made her way down the corridor, she was slightly startled when Dr. Crane joined her side.

"Jerry," he mused, "you're really quite feisty."

Her smile grew and he noted the way that it, like someone else's he had been spending the past week with, had a tendency to spread ear-to-ear. She issued a girlish giggle and her blue eyes lit up in unadulterated glee. Yet she caught her indiscretion and suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth.

"You can laugh," he said simply.

She released her hand and a pink blush silently crept across her round cheeks.

"I know… It just feels so… unnatural here. It feels forbidden," she murmured solemnly.

She half-expected him to crack a smile and place a comforting arm around her shoulders only to exclaim,

"_Of course it's not!"_

He was on her side after all, right?

But he didn't. Instead, he gazed at her stoically, rigidly even, and pursed his lips. A slight shiver went down her spine and she swallowed.

"Why did you have the case turned back to me?" she finally murmured.

"The patient is clearly very attached to you, Doctor. I'm interested to see how that may turn out," he issued simply.

"Is he?" she furrowed her brow.

"You already know the answer to that question," he said dispassionately.

"But you're a better psychiatrist than I am. You're more experienced," she sighed.

"I have better things to do than spend all my time with a clown," he issued coldly.

"Like what?" she crossed her arms.

"Research."

"What research?" she tilted her head.

"Research that has not yet come to fruition, Doctor, just as you have not yet met your full potential," he smirked.

"Potential?" she furrowed her brow.

"You can't possibly think that you're in your final form yet."

"And what would that be?" she finally asked with a sigh.

"That is not up to me to determine. See you soon, Doctor," he smiled coldly before turning to walk off down the corridor.

He left her dumbfounded, though that was often the goddamn case around here.

"Excuse me, Frank?" she called out to him.

He stopped and turned to her, an oafish grin plastered on his face.

"Yeah, Doc?" he asked eagerly, pleased to have been directly addressed by his favorite Arkham employee.

"Could you please remove the straightjacket from the patient?" she smiled sweetly.

"_What?"_ he spat and the smile fell from his face.

"And from now on he's to be restrained by handcuffs," she added.

Frank and the other two guards stared at her incredulously for a moment before they turned to the heavily restrained Joker sitting in the center of her bolted chaise. The guards eventually obeyed and they flurried about him, unbuckling his straps and bracing themselves for any swift movements. Though he remained perfectly still, save for the smile that was growing wider and wider on his face. He didn't break eye contact with his newly reinstated psychiatrist and she grew increasingly nervous as the flurry of activity continued. They eventually pulled the straightjacket off of him and wrestled his arms back to clasp a pair of metal cuffs around his wrists. She suddenly realized that his range of motion was now much, much wider and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. After the three guards completed their task, they glanced at her doubtfully and exited the room without a word.

The ostensible silence that followed was the worst one that had occurred all week. As they marinated in it, she internally attempted to brace herself for the next five weeks but would begin by bracing for the first words out of his mouth. After a moment, she heard what she'd been expecting when he crooned,

"Honey, I'm home."

* * *

_"Is he here?" she asked quietly._

_"No," he said simply._

_She exhaled in relief and shuffled through the unlocked door._

_"He's hardly ever here," he added, tossing his keys onto a pristinely polished tabletop._

_The two entered Jack's apartment, or his father's rather, and he shut the door behind them. After a long-winded exchange filled with pleading, whining and bickering, Jack had finally allowed Harley to enter his home. She'd been avoiding her own for the past week, choosing to hang out in public places or Mario's instead, and had begged for days to see the Napier abode._

_Just to shut her damn mouth, he finally allowed it._

_"This is really nice," she craned her head up and swiveled it around._

_He shrugged apathetically and sauntered through the large space to eventually stop at a large wooden cabinet._

_It was an open floor layout, which contained a kitchen, living room, and dining room all in one massive space. The apartment was smartly furnished and as she pivoted her head around, she duly noted that they were absolutely loaded. His father clearly hired a high-end interior designer and based on the results, must have spent quite a good amount of his mob and blood money on it._

_Meanwhile, Jack flung the cabinet open to reveal rows and rows of gleaming liquor bottles. It was essentially a fully stocked bar entirely comprised of half-consumed handles, fifths, and bottles._

_"Whoa," she murmured and blinked at the impressive collection._

_"Pick whatever you want," he issued in a bored tone before he walked off._

_She scanned the large selection for a moment before idly picking out a bottle full of brown liquid. After determining it to be none other than whiskey, she turned to follow her companion. He'd stopped outside a door and glanced at her before twisting the doorknob and pushing it open._

_They entered his room and she paused to drink in its contents. The walls were entirely covered in a massive montage to the point where the color of the original wallpaper was a complete mystery. The montage most notably consisted of band posters from every punk and post-punk band that one could imagine, though she could hardly name a third of the groups on his wall. Yet despite their dark, chaotic content, which ranged from shameless expletives to scenes of anarchism and mayhem, they were neatly hung. Curiously, not a single one was crooked or out of place. Additionally, the montage stemmed in to newspaper scraps and clippings all narrating political coup d'états, assassinations, civil wars, and rebellious uprisings. Though it didn't end with rebellion, as it managed to document nearly every terrorist attack, domestic and foreign, dating back since World War II._

_The black bedding on his bed was neatly made, something that surprised her. Directly adjacent to the bed was a desk that was almost bare, save for a stack of textbooks. Further, the room possessed a dresser and considerably large bookcase. She sauntered forward to idly assess the pile of textbooks sitting on his desk as she set down the bottle. She picked up the first and flipped through it before she lifted her head to meet his gaze._

_"Quantum mechanics?" she raised her eyebrows._

_"This is a 400-level college textbook," she held it out in front of her, eyes wide._

_He shrugged apathetically and nodded._

_"Twenty-two year olds cry over this stuff," she waved it in the air._

_She set it down and picked up the second one in the pile._

_"Classical mechanics. Oh, but look - this is only a 300-level textbook. Slacker," she teased with a smile._

_He couldn't help but issue the smile that she'd evoked from him and she moved forward through the pile._

_"Chemical thermodynamics," she announced and slid the textbook off._

_"Multivariable calculus," she further read._

_She glanced at him, issuing a disbelieving smirk and shake of the head, before moving over to his bookcase and squinting at the titles._

_"Marx, Faulkner, Nietzsche, Arendt, Kafka, Freud, London, Aristotle, Verne, Machiavelli, Guevara, Kant…" she reeled off._

_She turned to glance at him over her shoulder._

_"Light reading," she quipped._

_He shrugged once more and she turned to clamber up onto his bed._

_"What did you say your GPA was?" she asked casually, pulling her legs into an Indian-style position._

_"It might be a 1.2," he furrowed his brow._

_She started laughing her tinny, shrill laugh._

_"You're unbelievable," she giggled._

_He couldn't help but smile once more and for the briefest of moments, thought that maybe her ugly laughter was more infectious than he ever perceived it to be._

_She arched her back forward to slide the first drawer of his desk open. After a moment, she pulled out a wooden box and lifted the lid before she lifted her own head with a playful smirk._

_"So this is where it is," she teased._

_The box contained an eight ball of coke, a razor blade, a small mirror, a grinder, rolling papers, and several colorful lighters. She picked out the grinder and twisted it apart before sniffing its contents. Her nose wrinkled at the pungent scent and she placed it neatly back into the box._

_"Do you smoke a lot?" she asked casually._

_"Occasionally," he shrugged._

_She nodded and set the box down onto the desk._

_"Well if you ever want some Adderall, let me know," she issued a sweet smile._

_"Do you have ADD?" he raised an eyebrow._

_"Diagnosed ADHD although that's complete bullshit," she rolled her eyes._

_"And I hardly ever take it too. I usually just sell it off. Sometimes they go for ten bucks a pop, which is awesome," she grinned impishly._

_"Who diagnosed you?" he asked suspiciously._

_"My pediatrician a long time ago. He said I space out too much," she shrugged._

_"You don't have ADHD," he said simply._

_"But I have Adderall," she smirked._

_He returned the smirk and began to pull out the mirror, razor, and baggie before dumping out a healthy lump of white powder onto the reflective surface. She silently watched him scrape together several fat rails, listening to the crass kiss between metal and glass._

_"You want some?" he glanced up at her._

_She shook her head and he shrugged._

_"Whatever," he issued before pulling a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and rolling it into a makeshift straw._

_She watched him slam each rail, one after the other, before he snapped his head back and sniffed hard._

_He turned his head to meet her gaze and she could already see his dark eyes glaze over in a pretty serious high._

_"Do one," he suddenly commanded._

_He thrust the powdery straw in his face and she glanced at it with uncertainty._

_"Take it," he sneered._

_She finally took the bill and watched his mouth curl into a haughty smirk. The cocaine exuded an undeniable air of cockiness and she nervously obeyed him as she leaned forward to amateurishly do a line. As the powder funneled up her nose, her eyes began to water and she was suddenly overcome by a thick buzz._

_He grinned that Cheshire cat grin and took the straw back from her to resume vacuuming the rest of the mirror. She began sniffing violently, suddenly feeling uncomfortable from the nasal drip and congestion. As the high gradually consumed her, she idly began to rummage through his desk drawer once more. After a moment of deep excavating, her fingers smoothed against a glossy texture and she pulled out the lone photograph to silently assess it._

_In the photo, a tall woman gently cradled a blue bundle in her arms. Her slender body was wrapped in a flowing white sundress and she had a supple face framed by waves and waves of sandy brown-blonde hair. Her large, symmetrical smile, marked at each end by a deep dimple, exuded a warmth that plucked at Harley's heartstrings. Though it was her warm brown eyes that drew her in. She was very young, perhaps recently out of high school or a college dropout, and much too young to be holding an infant. A delicate silver Cross sat in the hollow gap between her collarbones, prompting Harley to glance at the photograph's surrounding environment. She was on a luxurious green spread of grass, beneath the shade of a massive tree draped in Spanish moss. It certainly wasn't taken in Gotham, and she suddenly remembered learning a long time ago about New Orleans' iconic City Park, which was on par with New York's Central Park._

_"Is this her?" she asked quietly._

_He glanced over at her in slight confusion as he was previously unaware that she'd even found the photograph. Yet within seconds he snatched it from her hand and shot her a dark, caustic glare._

_"I-I'm sorry," she murmured fearfully._

_He tossed the photo back into the drawer and slammed it shut. She tensed at the sharp noise and pursed her lips, watching him stalk off toward the other side of the room. A lengthy silence passed as they avoided one another's gaze before she nervously shifted on the bed._

_"She's very beautiful," she offered gently._

_His dark eyes connected with hers briefly before he turned to ignore her once more. Slowly and carefully, she slid off the bed to approach him._

_"What happened to her?" she asked in a whisper._

_He gritted his teeth and shook his head._

_"Jack," she whispered and attempted to touch his shoulder._

_He jerked away from her and she snapped her hand back in fear. She could see the rage building inside of him and she realized that she needed to play her cards right otherwise she'd be in his direct path of fury._

_"I'm sorry I asked," she said simply, her large eyes shimmering with genuine apology._

_He blinked at her and sniffed hard. It was clear that he was high out of his mind, which could either be a blessing or a curse depending on what way his mood swung. His eyes, black and glazed over, stared at her. She couldn't gauge his mood whatsoever, so with tense apprehension she quietly repeated,_

_"She's very beautiful."_

_He stared hard at her for a moment before he brushed past her shoulder to reach his desk. He dumped out another mound of coke on the mirror and she silently watched him repeat the process that she'd witnessed earlier. As he was busying himself with his escapism, Harley made her way back to his bed. She climbed on top of it and simply waited for him._

_He slammed about three before he threw the straw back onto the desk and finally turned to her._

_"When you were telling me about your brother, you said that everyone in his life abandoned him because there's no honor in being crazy. What do you believe?_

_"Just because someone goes crazy doesn't mean they lose honor," she replied thoughtfully._

_"They become illegitimate members of society," he pointed out._

_"Well because society perpetuates that notion. That doesn't mean it's right though," she murmured._

_He took a step toward her, gazing at her intensely all the while, and wrapped a hand around her mangled neck. It was still mottled with fading bruises, the same as her black eye, and he lowered his face to hers. Her lips parted slightly and his own spread into a massive grin. She smiled as well, elated that she'd answered correctly; he was in a good mood again. As she counted every single one of his gleaming teeth, her breath thickened with desire. He could feel it and his smile evaporated only to busy his lips with hers. He kissed her hard, reveling in the way she felt against his mouth._

_He was feeling fanfuckingtastic and so was she, though she didn't need any coke to be on his level. She moaned in pleasure, suddenly ecstatic that their indiscretion in her bathtub wasn't a strange one-time thing. Once more, his tongue pushed at her teeth though she refused to give in. She teased him with a nip to the lip and he was suddenly hungry for much, much more than a grade school makeout. He pushed her down onto the bed and ravenously roved her body with his hands, yet through some inexplicable measure, she managed to roll him off of her and assumed the dominant position. She straddled his hips and giggled quietly at the look of surprise on his face. He hungrily watched her pry the black long-sleeved shirt off her body, and just as she issued a teasing smirk, he sprung up to take control once more. She moaned as he nipped at her neck and she clumsily shimmed his own black shirt up off his head. He pressed her back down onto the bed, but before he even realized it, she had unbuttoned his pants and they were halfway down his thighs. She used her feet to push them off and he obligingly aided by shaking them off his ankles. Yet she somehow squirmed out from underneath him and with an impish grin, began to shuffle up toward the headboard. He grabbed her ankle and she squealed giddily before he pulled her back toward him and began to unbutton her jeans. He pulled them off her short legs in one fluid motion and then placed a knee between her bent legs._

_"You're not going anywhere," he cooed as he loomed over her._

_She bit her lip as he placed his right hand on her knee and used his left to toy with the hemline of her black panties. She exhaled shakily in anticipation, her lustful eyes trained on his predatory ones, and he leaned his head against her propped knee. He gauged every fraction of a reaction as his fingers trickled south and began to rub her through the silky fabric. Her knee twitched under his grip as she moaned softly. He smirked as he watched her every breath quicken in reaction to his faster, harder caress. She shut her eyes and tilted her head back ever so slightly, exposing her slender, mutilated neck to his heated stare._

_He leaned down to roughly kiss it, eliciting pained and lustful noises from the petite blonde squirming beneath him. He pressed his lips hard against her bruises and she whimpered between ragged breaths. She pulled his mouth to hers, moaning as he continued to rub her through her panties. His other hand forced itself underneath her backside and he attempted to fumble with her bra a second time, pulling back from the kiss with a smirk when they both heard the successful _click_._

_Yet it was not her bra clasp that made the noise, but his door._

_The two froze in horror as it both dawned on them what had just occurred._

_"Jacky?" the slurred voice of his father bellowed from the open door._

_"The coke," she hissed into his face and he shook his head adamantly, suddenly choosing to spring off of her._

_Though rather than guising the mess on his desk, he quickly snatched her clothes and threw them at her before tossing his blanket over her body._

_"Put your fucking clothes on," he commanded in a harsh whisper and she nodded obediently._

_She pulled the blanket up to her chin just as she furiously attempted to put herself back together._

_"Who are you talking to?" the voice boomed, inching closer as he stumbled into the room._

_"No one," he issued simply and shimmied his dark slacks up his legs._

_His father finally came into full view and stopped several feet from the desk._

_"You'd think you'd have more bulk from all the steak you eat. Or is the coke cutting down on your appetite?" he snapped irritably and gestured at the powdered mirror._

_Jack ignored his comment just as Harley was furiously attempting to button her jeans underneath the blanket. The rustling movement caught his attention and she shut her eyes, bracing herself._

_"And just who do you have under there?" he grinned madly, taking a step forward._

_She pulled the blanket over her head, both to avoid his drunken leer and to shimmy her shirt on. Just as she successfully put it on, the blanket was ripped off of her. She peered up at the well-dressed man who gazed down on her with black inebriated eyes._

_"Well you don't look very _satisfied_," he frowned theatrically._

_She offered a meek laugh but he didn't crack a smile._

_"Do you want me to help?" he asked with a dark smirk._

_Normally, she would have proffered a second nervous laugh, but she knew how serious he was. He reached down to grab her hand but, mercifully, Jack stepped between him and the bed._

_"Don't touch her," he issued evenly._

_"And who do you think you are?" his father snapped._

_"Hmm?" he continued, "bringing a guest into _my_ home, drinking _my_ liquor, doing _my_ coke? And now you have the audacity to tell _me_ what to do?"_

_"She isn't _yours _to touch," he issued evenly._

_While both men were well acquainted with arrogance, both of them happened to be high. The cocaine produced a haughty pride in both of them and just as they shared a remarkable physical resemblance, their heightening arrogance was equally as matched._

_"This is my home. She is a guest in _my_ home," the elder sneered._

_The younger version hocked a sharp laugh and shook his head._

_"What is it with you and possession? Mom wanted to leave and then you - "_

_Harley clenched her eyes shut when she heard the resounding smack of an open palm hitting skin._

_"Shut the fuck up," his father screamed and took his throat into a chokeslam against the wall._

_Harley immediately began to cry as she watched the two, father and son, snarl and claw at one another. Jack's mouth split into a vicious grin and she suddenly shivered. She had seen this grin before: the first night that she'd served him and his father at the Lounge. The same harrowing, nefarious laugh from that night also ripped from his throat, further infuriating his father. His laugh became increasingly distorted as his father pressed harder against his trachea. Yet the choking laughter only grew louder, causing an equally chilling roar to escape the elder's mouth._

_"_And the son said to him: Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and in your sight. I am no more worthy to be called your son_," he bellowed._

_Jack began to laugh so hard that several tears rolled down his cheeks._

_"Do you… Do you think that I'm your _prodigal son_?" he sputtered._

_His father slackened his grip and stared hard at him._

_"Are you really coming in here, so drunk you can't speak, so high you can't think, hitting me, and preaching the _New Testament_ to me? You're a fucking riot!" he shouted and resumed his demonic cackling._

_Suddenly, he shoved his father off of him with unprecedented strength. The drunk stumbled backward and caught himself before he tumbled to the floor._

_"I am not your prodigal son," Jack continued with a sneer, "I am not your son. If you want to quote the Bible, fine. But if you want to play out the Parable, you can't tell me that you will fall to your knees with compassion as a father. You would be lying to me, to yourself, and to your imaginary friend in the sky if you ever so much as _thought_ that."_

_His father stared at him with a blank, empty expression._

_"I will not return to you," he continued, "I have nothing to repent. You're as dead to me as I am to you. You have no one. No son. No wife. And whose fault is that?"_

_"I loved your mother," he said quietly._

_"So much that you threw her into Arkham when she wanted to leave you?" he goaded with a menacing sneer._

_"You're a joke of a man," he finally added with a snarl._

_The burning rage in his father's eyes resumed and he flew forward to proffer another blow. Yet Harley sprung up from the bed, flailing her arms._

_"Stop!" she screamed._

_They both turned to look at her, frozen in aggressive stances. They'd forgotten all about the crying girl on the bed, too far sucked into a world dictated by hatred and anger; a world they often found themselves in. The elder Jack silently dropped his hand and swiveled his head back to his son._

_"I loved your mother," he repeated in a strange tone._

_"But never me," Jack said simply._

_His father blinked at him before glancing at Harley. They shared brief eye contact before he turned without a word and mutely left the room. She waited for the slam of the front door to turn and grab Jack's face._

_He winced and pushed her away but she grabbed him once more. Though in blind desperation she failed to notice the coal shade of his eyes and the next thing she felt was the hard slap of his open palm. She squeaked and reeled backward from the clout, ultimately tripping over herself and thudding against the wooden floor. She'd been hit countless times before, and much harder than that slap, but as she glanced at him in shock, she began to cry harder than she had in years._

_As he stared down at her his face softened, no longer hard and cold, only to be replaced by a pained expression. His features had twisted into a combination of shock and numbness. The black quickly faded from his eyes as anger receded and he stared blankly at his open palm, unsure how to acknowledge his indiscretion. As Harley's cries began to reach a fever pitch, he quietly attempted to reach out to her with the same hand. The hand that inflicted pain now sought to assuage, yet she batted at it and grew increasingly hysterical._

_"Fuck you, Jack," she sobbed hard._

_He listened to her hysteria for a terribly long moment before he sighed._

_"You can hit me," he said quietly._

_Her cries paused and she glanced up at him with glassy eyes. She slowly rose, reaching his collarbone as per usual, and glanced at her own open palm in consideration. Yet she shook her head and crossed her arms, only to choke and sputter out more dreadful sounds. She realized that it was the closest to an apology that she would get, only making her more hysterical. He, in turn, had receded into a state of utter numbness._

_This only worsened her state. She was suddenly consumed by loathing and rage, so much so, that she kicked him hard between the legs. He crumbled to the floor and choked out several painful coughs, clutching at his manhood and squeezing his eyes shut. His clenched jaw indicated the level of pain he was in, which sated her fury. She glowered down at him, grasping her own stinging cheek, before finally sighing and kneeling down next to him. He popped an eye open to watch her sniffle and wipe away the last of her tears, now that she'd reverted back to a sniveling wreck. They silently watched one another, gauging the pain that they had inflicted upon the other, before they shared a lengthy and equally painful silence._

_After a moment, Harley carefully smoothed out a lock of hair on his forehead. As he allowed her to do so, her light, ticklish caress became increasingly loving. Her large eyes shimmered with emotion, and as he stared at her with his own blank, emotionless eyes, she placed her hands on the sides of his face and pulled his head up to hers. She kissed him hard and he kissed her back just as forcefully, crashing lips and teeth and tongues together._

_It was an aggressive kiss._

_It was an apologetic kiss._

_It was a fucked up kiss._

_He grabbed a fistful of her hair and she a handful of his shirt before she suddenly pushed him away._

_"You're not my friend," she murmured in a pained tone as she pulled away from him._

_He blinked vacantly at her and pulled himself into an upright position._

_"Okay," he said simply._

_Her bottom lip began to tremble; this was not the response she was hoping for and he knew it. He watched her blue eyes fill up with tears for the umpteenth time since he'd known her, but her stubborn trait was severely attempting to keep the waterworks at bay._

_"Then I guess I'll see you around," she stated with wavering confidence._

_"Okay," he repeated._

_She stared at him and a tear leaked down her face. She wanted him to wrap her in his arms and coo something affectionate and mollifying. He knew this. He knew that's what she wanted. Yet he didn't do it, not only because he didn't care to, but also because he didn't know how._

_"I'm gonna go see Tony," he said after a moment and stood up._

_She peered up at him with watery eyes and it was obvious that she was having an intense internal debate. After a moment, the question he was waiting for arrived when she mumbled,_

_"Can I come?"_

_"Yeah," he said simply._

* * *

I'm so so so so so sorry about this epic delay! My life has been crazy busy these past two months but it's back to normal now so that means more frequent updates. Thank you for still sticking with this! Also, just a couple things about Dr. Crane: obviously this is chronologically incorrect as this is based on The Dark Knight. In this story, the events of Batman Begins never happened. Crane is still an Arkham doctor – he's not yet Scarecrow. Also, I'm not intending for any "love triangle" (unless you guys want for that to happen) – he's certainly interested in Harley but for reasons other than anything romantic. Cool? Cool!


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